Black and grey realism tattoo of a small songbird perched on an ornate scroll on a forearm, with a flourish rising above the bird.

Songbird on a scrollwork forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small songbird sits on top of a large curling scroll that wraps down the forearm, with a second flourish rising above it on the upper arm side. The bird is shaded with soft greys and fine feather detail, while the scrollwork uses bold outlines with heavy grey shading to give it depth. The image shows the tattoo close up against a grey top and dark jeans, with the sharp black linework standing out against the skin.

Realism Forearm Bird Songbird Scroll Flourish Swirl Feather

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You carry the cage down the lane before the hooter, the way your mother used to when your father still went down. The canary sits fat and grey-brown on its perch, and every so often it throws back its head and sings as though the whole row of terraces had asked it to. Mr Hollis at the top of the drift says it is a cheap bit of feather he could replace from any shop in Barnsley, but he takes the cage from you every shift all the same and hangs it on the iron bracket by the lamp room, where the old winding gear curls round it like a hand.

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The night the gas comes up the east heading, the bird goes quiet first. You notice before anyone shouts, the way the sound drops out of the shed as if someone has turned off a tap. Then Hollis is hollering and the men are moving, boots ringing on the iron stairs, and you are the one who reaches the cage first. The canary has dropped to the floor of its wire house, feathers puffed, beak open on nothing. You lift it out with two fingers, press it against your coat, and run for the cage door at the top of the shaft where the air still tastes of rain.

It takes a long time to come back to itself. You sit on an upturned crate with the bird cupped in your palms and count the men as they climb out, one name at a time, Hollis last of all, black to the eyebrows and swearing softly. Nobody thanks you. Hollis just nods at the bracket.

At first light you hang the cage back on the scroll. The canary shakes out its feathers, shuffles to the edge of the perch, and sings, loud and foolish and entirely alive, as though the iron had been bent into a curl for no other reason than to hold it.