Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Flock of birds rising from feathers on upper back
Back · Black and grey · Photo
A flock of silhouetted birds rises from a cluster of shaded feathers or leaves that sweeps down the upper back. The birds are drawn in solid black with simple outlines, while the feathers use soft grey shading and fine hatched linework. The image is a close, angled photo of the back against a plain indoor background, with the tattoo filling most of the frame.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
You have been counting gulls off the breakwater since the tide turned, the way your grandmother taught you: one bird for every boat that came home. The chandlery board still hangs by the door with its forty-odd brass hooks, and you know which ones are empty without looking. Nobody in Port Ellan says the names aloud before the nets are dry.
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Today the flock lifts from the shingle below the old net loft all at once, as if somebody has shaken a sheet out over the rocks. You stand with the wet rope coiled over your arm and watch them climb past the chimneys, black against the white sky, grey-edged where the sun catches them. Behind you the loft door is open. Inside, the feathers Thomas Reid kept for pillows lie in drifts on the boards, soft and greyish, each one scratched with the fine lines of a quill that never quite dried.
Your mother said the birds were only birds. Your father said they were the lost boats' souls, and went out anyway. You have stopped asking which of them was right, because the flock has started coming lower each winter, and this morning one gull came down on the slipway and stood there looking at you as if it expected you to speak first.
You pick up the feather it left behind. It is heavier than it should be, and when you turn it toward the water you can see the print of a hand pressed flat into the vane, the way a name shows on a steamed window. You hang it on the empty hook, and the flock wheels once above the harbour and goes out past the light.
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