Small fine line black tattoo of a folded origami crane on the upper arm, below a white sleeve, against a yellow shutter background.

Origami crane on upper arm

Fine line · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A small outline tattoo of a folded origami crane sits on the outer upper arm of a person wearing a white T-shirt. The lines are thin and angular, drawing the crane's wings, neck and tail as simple facets with no shading. The tattoo is black on pale skin, set against a bright yellow shutter background.

Fine line Geometric Upper arm Crane Bird Outline

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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 on the third floor of Gull Crest, a boarding house above Wexcombe harbour, folding the tide timetable into a bird because it is the only paper in the room you can still bend. Mrs Pargeter showed you the fold over breakfast, pressing each crease flat with her thumbnail the way she presses pastry. Valley folds, mountain folds, a tuck for the neck. Her hands are faster than yours, and she never looks at what she is doing.

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The wind comes in off the water every morning and rattles the sash, and every morning you add another crane to the windowsill. She says the old way is a thousand for a wish, and you tell her you are not wishing for anything, only keeping your fingers busy while the ferry timetable changes. She counts them when she dusts. Nine so far. The lodger in room four, a retired signalman called Mr Ocle, has started leaving spare pages of the Western Morning News outside your door, folded once, as if he expects a reply.

The last crane you make is the worst of them. Its tail is bent a fraction to the left and one wing sits lower than the other, and you mean to crumple it into the bin. Instead you carry it down the stairs and out onto the front step, where the amusement arcade across the road is rolling its yellow shutters down one slat at a time. Mrs Pargeter follows you out, wiping her hands, and takes the bird from your palm. She sets it on the hall table beside the wonky ones and says the sea has never once kept a promise, but paper will float for a day or two if you let it.

Upstairs, the nine on the sill turn slowly in the draught from the open door, their wings catching the last of the light, and you leave them there for whoever sleeps in this room next.