Realistic black and grey owl tattoo with orange eyes, shown on an upper arm in a Realism style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Realistic owl tattoo on an arm

Realism · Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

A large owl's face fills the frame, with feathers rendered in fine, layered greys and deep black shadows. The eyes are the only strong colour, glowing orange against the otherwise monochrome shading. The owl is set against darker feathered shapes that fade toward the edges of the arm.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The owl had been in the rafters of the Marine Palais since the gale in October, and nobody had the nerve to get it down. Mr Pryce, who ran the place with a ring of keys on a bootlace, said it was a tawny and would leave when it was hungry enough. I didn't believe him. I worked the cloakroom from seven until the last waltz, handing out coats against brass tickets, and I'd started to feel those eyes on the back of my neck whenever I bent to the rail.

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Dance nights were the worst. The band played swing under the mirror ball, and the light went skating over the parquet, over the couples and the girls with their pinned curls, and every so often it caught the beams and two coins of orange flashed down at us. Ronnie from the Sands Hotel swore it winked at him. He stopped coming after he tried to dance with it watching from above.

The night the gale came back, the lights failed at half eleven. In the dark the only thing I could see was those two embers up in the timbers, steady as a lamp left burning for someone coming home. Mr Pryce swore and struck a match. When the power returned, the owl had dropped onto the stage and stood among the music stands, feathers spread like a grey cape, looking at me as though I owed it a ticket.

I gave it my brass number, which was daft, and it took nothing. Next morning there was one long grey feather on the cloakroom counter. I still have it, tucked into the lining of my coat, where I feel it against my ribs every time I hang up somebody else's.

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