Black and grey realism drawing of a feather with the script words Someday I'll fly away running across it, shown as a tattoo design on a white background.

Feather with 'Someday I'll fly away' script

Realism · Black and grey · Flash

A detailed black and grey drawing of a feather lies diagonally across a plain white background, with fine pencil-like hatching along the quill and barbs. The words Someday I'll fly away are written over the feather in a flowing cursive script with black linework. The composition is horizontal and centred, with soft shading fading toward the tip of the feather.

Realism Lettering Feather Script Quote

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mrs Quennell swept the Marrowby Palais every Tuesday with a broom older than the sprung floor, and you were the one who followed her with the dustpan, picking up cigarette ends, dropped gloves and paper rosettes gone limp with spilt lemonade. The feather turned up under the bandstand in the second week of October. It was long and grey-brown, its shine gone, and someone had written along the quill in pencil, very small, as if the writer had been ashamed of it: someday i'll fly away.

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You kept it in the pocket of your overall. Nobody claimed it. The band that played on Saturdays was called the Starlings, and their drummer tapped his sticks on the rim of the bass drum when the next number was a slow one. You liked him for that. You liked the way the girls in their cheap satin shoes rose onto their toes when the lights dimmed, and you liked, most of all, that nobody looked down at the floor where you crouched with your dustpan.

In February a gale lifted the corner of the roof and the back doors blew open onto the prom. Paper rose through the rafters in a white storm. Mrs Quennell shouted for you to shut them, and you did, but not before the feather slipped from your pocket and went up, higher than the chandelier, over the balcony rail where no one had been allowed since the war.

The next Saturday the Starlings played their slow number to an empty floor, and the drummer tapped the rim twice anyway. You swept up the lemonade, the rosettes, the gloves. When you looked up, a grey shape was turning slowly in the lamplight above the balcony, and you stood still with the broom and let it go.