Black ink silhouettes of four small flying figures trailing down from behind the ear onto the neck, shown in black and white.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Four flying silhouettes behind the ear

Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A sequence of four solid black silhouettes of small airborne figures runs diagonally from above the ear down the side of the neck. The shapes are filled rather than outlined, with no shading inside them, and they decrease in size toward the bottom. The black and white photograph is taken close up, with the ear and a stud earring at the left and dark hair at the right.

Neck Silhouette Flying figure Figure Ear Neck

Find an artist for this

Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You are the first one in the bakery on Tanner Lane, before the milk float and before the sky has decided what colour it wants to be. Mrs Okafor leaves the back door propped open with a sack of spelt, and the ovens are already breathing. You knead the dough for the morning loaves while the shutters rattle, and you count the trays the way your grandfather taught you, out loud and in Welsh, because he said numbers sound more honest in a language that doesn't flatter them.

Keep reading

Above the proving cupboard hangs a row of four tin cut-outs, made years ago from an old biscuit lid, each a little smaller than the one before. They are nailed to a beam so they seem to leap from the rafters toward the door. Nobody remembers who made them. You have decided they are children who slipped out through the skylight one night when the flour ran low and never quite came back down. When the light finally comes grey through the window, the shapes catch it and throw their shadows across the flour bins.

The first delivery van idles outside, and you slide the last tray of rolls into the oven when the bell over the door rings. A man in a wet coat asks for a plain loaf the way someone asks directions to a street they have forgotten. You wrap it in brown paper, and as he turns to leave he glances up at the tin figures and smiles as if they owe him something.

After he goes, you climb the step stool and touch the smallest one, the last in the row, still warm from the heat that rises to the rafters. Flour comes away on your thumb, pale as morning. Tomorrow you will reach a little higher to dust them, and you will tell yourself it is only housekeeping.