Black and grey realism forearm tattoo showing bare trees, tall pine trees, three flying birds and a tent in a forest scene.

Forest scene with birds and tent on forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows a forest with bare, leafless trees, tall pine trees and silhouetted birds in flight across the upper section, with a tent in the grassy foreground at the bottom. The shading is soft and graduated, with dark trunks and branches fading into lighter mist between the trees. The image is three side-by-side photographs of the same forearm, in black and grey with warm skin tones.

Realism Forearm Forest Bare tree Pine tree Bird Tent Silhouette Grass

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The tent had been pitched at the edge of the pines since Thursday, and Marjorie Quayle had stopped pretending it was for the birds. Her brother Ned kept coming up the track from the lower farm with a flask and a tin of shortbread, and each time he looked at the canvas as if it might lift off the grass and drift away over the bare beeches. "You'll catch your death," he said, handing her the flask. "It's October, Marj."

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She didn't argue. Above them a skein of rooks came low across the ridge, black against a sky the colour of weak tea, and she counted them out of habit the way their father had taught her, one for sorrow, two for mirth. There were three. She took that as an answer of some kind, though she couldn't have said to what question.

The pines behind the tent had grown thick since their childhood, their tops lost in the haze, and the mist sat between their trunks like something patient. Ned told her the surveyors were coming in spring to measure the timber, that the whole wood would be sold by the hectare. Marjorie unscrewed the flask and poured him a cup he didn't want. She had been waiting for him to say it, and now that he had, the tent seemed a smaller and more honest thing than it had an hour before.

She folded the last of the canvas that night by torchlight and left it on the flattened grass. In the morning the rooks had gone, and the first frost had drawn a fine white line along every bough, so that the bare trees looked, for once, like they had been drawn carefully by someone who meant them to stay.