Greyscale pencil sketch of a single curving feather with soft shaded barbs, a design that could suit a realism style tattoo.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pencil sketch of a curved feather

Realism · Black and grey · Flash

A single feather drawn in pencil runs diagonally across a plain white background, curving up at its base and tapering to a fine quill at the lower right. The barbs are rendered with fine, feathered strokes and graded shading, with darker tones along the shaft and underside. The image is entirely black and grey with a simple, uncluttered composition.

Realism Feather

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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

Every morning the old lamplighter's widow, Mrs Agnes Harkness, climbed the fourteen flights of Brackenmoor House with a bag of stale crusts for the pigeons on the landing. Nobody on the eleventh floor believed the feather in her hair was a real one, though it was grey and long and curved like a sickle at its tip. She said it had come down the stairwell in the winter of the power cut, drifting past the broken lift doors as if someone upstairs had shaken out a pillow.

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The children of the block tested her. Dev Okafor, who was nine and sure of everything, tried to catch it in a jam jar. It slipped through the holes and landed back on the stair rail, perfectly dry. Mrs Harkness only laughed and told him a feather goes where it's wanted, and that his jar was far too small for anything that had flown over the Thames.

In March the lift finally stopped for good, and Dev found himself alone on the top landing with his mother's shopping and a sudden fear of the dark stairwell. He saw the feather lying on the top step, bent into a question mark. He picked it up and the wind came in through the open roof hatch and lifted him, shopping and all, down the stairwell, not fast, only enough to remind him the way down was wide. At the ground floor door he set the feather on the mail table. When he looked back up, the widow was waving from the eleventh floor window, and the feather was gone from his hand.