Black and grey realism tattoo of a feathered wing on the left side of a person's ribs, with the person lying on white fur.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Feathered wing tattoo on the ribs

Realism · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A person lies on white fluffy fur wearing a black top and pale yellow shorts, with their side and ribs visible. A detailed feathered wing sits on the side of the ribcage, shaded in black and grey with soft gradients across the feathers. The wing is shown at a slight diagonal, with the fur and fabric framing the tattoo against a warm skin tone.

Realism Ribs Wing Feather

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, the lot of you, and mind the draught from the stair, because the snow has shut the road at Caddon Pass and nobody is going anywhere before Tuesday. I'll tell you about the wing that came down the chimney in the hard winter of my mother's youth, when the inn was called the Silent Hen and the innkeeper, Tobias Rell, kept his ledger in a box under the bar.

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The wing was not a bird's. It belonged to a feather-broker from the coast, a thin man named Ansel Crane who carried a single pinion wrapped in oilcloth. Every feather on it was dark at the root and lightened toward the tip, like a rook's wing at dusk, so that you could not tell where the shadow stopped and the sky began. He wanted a bed and a bowl of broth, and he offered the wing in payment. Tobias laughed and said the wing was worth more than the inn, and so it was, though nobody believed him.

Ansel slept by the fire with the wing across his knees. In the morning the fur rugs were white with fresh snow and the wing was gone, and in its place lay a grey feather the length of a man's forearm, soft as ash, with no quill at all. Tobias put it on the mantel. Each night after that, the feather grew a little paler at the tip, as though something were flying out of it.

The pass opened in April. Ansel never came back for his payment, and nobody ever learned where the wing had flown. Tobias kept the feather until he died, and when they cleared the inn they found it pinned inside the ledger, just where the page turned over to the year nobody had written in. Now, bed, the lot of you. The road will be open by the time the fire goes out.