Realistic peacock feather tattoo on the side of a torso, with black shaded plumes and a coloured orange and blue eye, with a hand resting on the chest.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Peacock feather on the side ribs

Realism · Ribs · Mixed · Photo

A peacock feather runs diagonally across the side of the torso, with its black and grey shaded plumes sweeping down towards the bottom left. The eye at the top right is rendered in colour, with orange and brown rings around a blue and grey centre. The soft, slightly warm lighting and dark vignette focus attention on the tattoo, with a hand resting at the top of the frame.

Realism Ribs Peacock feather Peacock eye Feather

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Every winter the frost came to Hollin Farm before the cows were brought in, and every winter Ada Penrose counted the hens twice because the old cockerel would not stop crowing about the thaw. This year she counted three times. The peacock had come up the lane in November, a bird nobody on the valley road owned, trailing a tail like a bundle of dark rain. Her brother Tom wanted it shot for the eggs it would take from the hens. Ada wanted it fed.

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She fed it barley from the bottom of the sack and it stayed. When the snow shut the lane for nine days, it roosted on the byre roof and watched the yard with one round, unblinking look. On the tenth morning Tom found it standing by the water trough, shaking out a single feather that came loose and turned slowly down onto the ice. He picked it up and held it to the grey light. The eye at its end was blue as a pond at dusk, ringed in rust and gold, and it seemed to be looking back at him.

He carried it into the kitchen and set it in the jug on the dresser. Nobody spoke of selling the bird after that. The old women of the parish said a peacock that watched a house meant the house would be watched over, and Ada, who did not hold with old women, decided it was the bird's business and not hers. In March the lane opened. Tom drove to market with the calves and came home with a crate of seed potatoes and not one sour word about the peacock.

The feather is still in the jug. When the frost came back the next winter, Tom would stand at the dresser with his cup going cold and swear the eye had moved to follow him across the room.