Close-up of a small black fine line wing tattoo on the inside of a woman's wrist, with her hand resting against her shoulder.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small wing tattoo on the wrist

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A small black outline wing sits on the inside of a woman's wrist, with her hand bent and resting against her shoulder. The wing is drawn in fine, even linework with a little shading in the feathers and no colour. The background is a dark wooden panel, with a white embroidered top and a pendant necklace visible at the edge of the frame.

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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

Sit where the draught can't get at you, love, and mind the cat on the good chair. I've kept this house above the harbour for forty-one years, and the thing I remember best happened the winter the north wind took the Saint Ebba's mast clean off in the bay.

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The morning after, Tom found a gull in the scullery, knocked stupid against the back window and dropped on the draining board. It wasn't dead, not quite. One wing lay folded tight against its side, and Tom, who carved decoy ducks for a living and couldn't abide anything done carelessly, fetched his fine pen and drew that wing on the back of a laundry docket. Every feather. Every bar of shadow where the quill met the bone. He said you draw a wing by watching what it does, not what it is.

The gull flew off when the wind dropped, and that was the end of the miracle as far as the town was concerned. But a lodger called Miss Lacey, a draughtswoman for the ferry company with ink under her nails, saw the docket on the dresser and asked if she might keep it. Tom said she could have it if she'd take the wing along with it, and she laughed, then stopped, because she could see he meant it. She left at Michaelmas with the drawing folded inside her glove, and I never saw her again.

Tom died the spring after. I still have that scullery window, cracked clean across where the gull struck it. Some mornings the low sun comes through the crack and throws a small wing up the wall, and I stand there with my tea going cold, wondering which of us was the one who got away.

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