Realistic peacock feather tattoo in green, blue and black on the back of a woman's neck, with the hair pulled up.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Peacock feather on the nape of the neck

Realism · Neck · Mixed · Photo

A peacock feather runs vertically down the nape of the neck, with a teal and blue eye near the top and green barbs that fade into black towards the quill. Soft shading and fine detail give the feather depth and a realistic finish. The image is centred on the tattoo, with the head cropped out of frame and the hair pulled up.

Realism Neck Peacock feather Feather Peacock eye Peacock

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The peacock had been shrieking on the chapel wall since before the milk came, and Mrs Ada Pell said it would keep on until someone gave it a reason. Her husband had bought it off a tinker at the Michaelmas fair, along with a sack of lime and a promise that it would see off the foxes. It saw off nothing. It sat on the wall in the wet and screamed at the bus.

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Then in March the bird began to moult, and the feathers came down the lane on the wind like letters nobody had asked for. Old Mrs Haddon at the shop said a peacock feather kept in a house was an open eye for the devil, and the eye would follow whoever kept it. Ada took the lot to the burning barrel behind the chapel and watched the green curl black. She did not burn the one caught in the hedge by the gate, the longest of them, its eye still bright as a boiled sweet.

She pushed it into the lining of her good coat and forgot it through spring. In June the river came over the bridge and the Pells' house stood in brown water to the sills. Her husband was out on the lock gate with the council men, and Ada sat up all night on the stairs with the lamp, listening for the bird on the roof, which had gone quiet. Toward dawn she felt the quill prick through the wool, and she thought of Mrs Haddon and her devil, and found she did not mind being watched.

When the water went down the bird lay dead on the chapel wall, its neck folded like a dropped glove. Ada buried it under the rhubarb and kept the feather. She wore the coat to chapel every Sunday after that, and the eye stayed where she had put it, turned out to the street, keeping its own counsel.