Black and grey realism style tattoo of a hovering hummingbird on the inner forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Hummingbird on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small hummingbird in mid-flight, with its wings raised and long beak pointing right, is tattooed on the inner forearm. The bird is rendered in black ink with soft grey shading on the body, wing and tail feathers. The plain, light background and the wearer's blue top and jeans leave the tattoo as the clear focus of the frame.

Realism Forearm Hummingbird Bird

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

Come closer, the lamps are being lit and the carousel is still groaning on its axle, so you have time for one more tale before the Hollis brothers start shouting for the tent poles. This one is about Mags Carrow, who ran the coconut shy at the end of the field for forty summers and never once let a child win on the first throw. She said a prize given for nothing was a prize that got left on the grass. Then one September a boy came with a paper bag of hummingbird feathers he had found behind the vicarage, and asked if she would trade him a jar of pear drops for the whole lot.

Keep reading

She didn't ask why a boy wanted feathers. She set the jar on the counter and watched him tip the bag out, and the feathers were dark as wet slate, shot through with a grey like cigarette smoke when the lamp caught them. He told her the birds came to the foxgloves in the lane every morning, and that one of them had a bent tail and flew like it was late for something. Mags said nothing for a long while. Then she gave him the jar and a ticket for the big wheel, and sent him home by the back way.

The next summer a woman in a green coat turned up at the shy wanting to know who had been drawing hummingbirds on the canvas flaps of the sideshow tent. Mags told her it was the wind, and the wind was a terrible painter. But she kept a single feather pinned inside her cashbox, and on quiet nights she would hold it up to the lamp and watch the grey come alive, the way a thing does when someone has finally looked closely enough to see it.

The fair packs up on Sunday. Mind the guy ropes on your way out.