Black and grey realism tattoo of a hummingbird in flight above hibiscus flowers and leaves on an upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Hummingbird and hibiscus flowers on an upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A hummingbird with its long beak and outstretched wings hovers above a cluster of hibiscus flowers with dark, serrated leaves. The linework is soft and the shading is detailed, giving the feathers, petals and leaves a realistic, three-dimensional look. The design is rendered entirely in black and grey ink and wraps around the upper arm, with the bird at the top and the flowers below.

Realism Botanical Upper arm Hummingbird Bird Hibiscus Flower Leaves

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The hummingbird came in with the windfalls, though nobody saw it arrive. My uncle Desmond swore it had been riding in a crate of Bramleys from the Kent market, wedged between two hard fruit, and that the lorry driver had been too busy with his radio to notice a flicker at his mirror. By the time we found it, it was hanging over the hibiscus my grandmother had planted against the north wall, beak down, wings a grey blur we could only feel as a draught on the back of the neck.

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It was late August. The wasps were drunk on fallen plums and the orchard smelt of cider and cut grass. I was meant to be picking Discovery apples for the stall, but I kept stopping at the hedge. The bird would drop to the pale, papery flowers, dip its needle beak into each one, then lift away to the old pear tree and hang there, looking back at me as if I were the odd one out.

Desmond said birds like that never stayed anywhere long. They went wherever the flowers were, and the flowers were everywhere in the world except here. I told him that was daft. He laughed, slapped his knee, and said he'd put a fiver on it. On the Friday the hibiscus dropped its last bloom, and the north wall was nothing but dark, saw-edged leaves.

The next morning the bird was gone. I went out with my coffee and found, tucked among the leaves, a single petal no bigger than my thumbnail, still damp with dew. I pressed it into the back of the picking log between the wet pages. Desmond never mentioned the fiver again, and I never told him that I had started leaving the orchard gate open at dusk.