Black and grey drawing of two large monarch butterflies with smaller butterflies scattered around them, a tattoo design for use on skin.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Monarch butterflies in flight

Realism · Black and grey · Flash

The drawing shows two large monarch butterflies, one near the top and one at the bottom, with a cluster of smaller butterflies and specks trailing between them. The wings are rendered with fine linework, dotted spots and stippled shading that suggests the vein patterns and wing texture. The design is in black ink and greys on a plain light grey background, with the composition running vertically down the page.

Realism Butterfly Monarch butterfly Wing Insect

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Hettie, You'll think I've gone soft in the head, but on Tuesday the monarchs came up over the cliff path at Porthgwidden as if someone had shaken out a dozen black-veined handkerchiefs. Mrs Pascoe at the boarding house says they come every autumn, blown across the water from somewhere she can't pronounce, and rest on the washing lines before they go on. I counted forty on one sheet before the wind took them.

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Mrs Pascoe's late husband ran the ferry to the islands, and she says he used to swear they were the only passengers who never asked for a refund. The lodgers at number six have started leaving sugar water in saucers on the sills. The smaller ones with the speckled wings settle on the rail and don't mind being watched. Mr Ansell in room four, who has slept badly since the funeral, sat out with them until midnight and came down to breakfast actually smiling, which I hadn't seen him do once in a month.

Yesterday a big one, torn at one edge, landed on my window sill and stayed while I packed. I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing. Then the whole swarm lifted from the roofs at once and went out over the harbour wall toward the grey where the sky meets the sea. Nobody knows how they find the way. Mrs Pascoe says they simply go, and the old ones who make it are the ones who never stopped pointing themselves south.

I'm catching the bus to Penzance on Friday, and I've decided to stay on a bit longer than planned. Don't tell Father. Write back to the address on the envelope and tell me whether the apple tree has any fruit left.

Yours, Ruth