Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Five swallows in flight on a forearm
Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A close photograph of a forearm carrying five small solid black swallow silhouettes, each in a different wing position, that rise in a diagonal line towards the elbow. The birds are simple filled shapes with no interior shading, and the ink is crisp against the pale skin. The background is softly blurred, with a white sleeve, part of a woman's face and red lipstick visible at the edges of the frame.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The abbot wants the swallows gone before Lauds, and you are the one he sends up the scriptorium ladder with a bucket of hot water and a scraper, because you are the youngest and the least likely to argue. Brother Tobias has already hung a sheet of waxed linen beneath the eaves to catch the mess, and it is stiff with last summer's droppings. The mud nests are cups of clay stuck under the slates, and five of the birds sit on the gutter watching you with their dark, sharp heads cocked.
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You do not scrape. You tell yourself it is the cold that stops your hand, but the truth is the way they lift off together when the ladder wobbles, five black shapes peeling away one after another, each tilting its wings to a different angle as if the sky were a page they were reading. They climb the air in a diagonal line, the way the red ribbon climbs the margin of Brother Tobias's gospel, and then they are gone over the orchard wall towards the coast and the warmer ground beyond it.
When you come down, the abbot is waiting at the foot of the ladder with his hands folded inside his sleeves. He asks whether the nests are cleared. You say they are. It is not quite a lie: the mud is still there, but the birds have gone, and you were the one who let them go. He nods and walks off across the cloister, and you stand in the wet grass until the bell goes for None.
Next April, before the bell, you will find yourself on the same ladder with the bucket in your hand, and you will leave the scraper where it hangs. The first swallow will come up the valley low over the water, and you will watch it climb past the scriptorium roof with four more behind it in a line, and you will not tell anyone why you are smiling.
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