Dotwork fish tattoo above a traditional-style bird with a red devil figure on it, on a forearm, with a yellow flower at the lower left edge.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fish above a bird and devil on a forearm

Dotwork · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A shaded fish with a dotted texture sits above a bird with a small red devil figure perched on it. The fish is drawn in black linework with grey stippling, while the bird and devil use solid black outlines and filled colour, with red and yellow also visible in a flower at the lower left. The photo is taken close up on the inside of an arm against a dark leather surface.

Dotwork Traditional Forearm Fish Bird Devil Flower

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

4.10 a.m. Flour in the creases of everything again. Dough proving under the cloths, the oven ticking up to temperature, and the window above the sink still black enough to show me my own face. Mrs Okafor's sourdough is the first tray, as ever, and I have fed the starter twice because the yeast has been sulking since the thaw.

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Something was waiting on the back step this morning when I unlocked the yard door. A fish, not dead, not alive, lying on a bed of wet newspaper with its mouth opening and closing as if it were reading the sky. Perch, Dad would have said, from the canal, though the spots looked painted on. I thought of tipping it back in the cut, but the bird on the wall above the bins was watching me with its head cocked, the grey crow that has stolen every crust we've put out since March. Perched on its back was a little red devil with a forked tail, tapping the gutter with a spoon as if keeping time.

I said good morning to them both, which I suppose is what you do in a bakery before the lights come on. The devil grinned and pointed at the oven. The crow made a noise like a gate. I took the hint and put the fish in a tin with a little milk and salt, and I have not decided yet whether that was kindness or a bargain.

Now the loaves are out, a dozen of them, crackling as they cool, and the sky over the car park has gone the colour of weak tea. The crow has left. The devil has not. He is sitting on the proving basket with his tail curled round the flour sack, and every so often he looks at the tin, and I look at the clock, and neither of us says which of us is going to open it first.