Black fine line tattoo of a feather with small birds flying off it, on the lower abdomen beside a navel piercing.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Feather with flying birds on the lower abdomen

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A single feather lies diagonally across the skin, with several small birds shown rising from its upper end towards the top right. The linework is thin and dark, with light shading along the feather's barbs. The image is in black ink on skin, with a navel piercing visible at the top left and a striped fabric at the right edge.

Fine line Other Feather Bird

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain had been coming sideways across Castle Street since seven, and by eleven I had sold one umbrella and a pair of brass candlesticks to a man who wanted them for his mother's grave. I was folding the tarpaulin when the girl ducked under the stall edge, shaking water from a green coat. She wanted to know if I had any feathers. Not for hats, she said. For keeping.

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I kept a biscuit tin of them under the counter, mostly magpie and a few jay blue, and one long grey pinion I had pulled from a gull outside the fish hall years before and never known what to do with. She turned them over with fingers that would not stop trembling from the cold. She chose the grey one. I told her it was a poor price for something that had flown so far, and she laughed and said nothing had flown far, it had only been falling, and that was a different thing.

Then the cloud over the bus station split in one white seam and the rain thinned to a drizzle that hung in the light like flour. Starlings came off the roof of the covered hall all at once, a hundred of them, turning as though someone had shaken a sheet above the town. The girl stood with her face tipped up and the feather flat in her palm, and she did not look at the birds for long. She looked at the place above the stalls where the feather seemed to be heading.

She tucked it into her collar and walked off towards the river. The starlings kept climbing above the empty stalls, each one a little lighter than the last, until there was nothing over the market but wet grey sky and the smell of frying onions from the van by the gate.