Swallow tattoo on the ribs
Realism · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo
A single swallow in flight is tattooed on the side of the ribcage, angled upward with its wings spread. The linework is fine and the feathers are shaded in grey tones to give the bird volume. The image is black and grey and the composition is a close, side-on crop of the torso.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
You are three weeks out from Valparaíso on a grain ship called the Marjorie Quayle, and the cook has started measuring the days to land by the tins left in the pantry. The first swallow comes aboard on a Tuesday, a dark, quick thing that drops onto the foredeck rail as if it has been waiting for a berth. Old Tobias Renn, the bosun, says a lost swallow means a dead man's ship. You tell him swallows go out to sea all the time, and he shrugs and goes back to his splicing.
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The bird stays. It rides the rigging for two days, dipping under the lee of the foresail to take flies off the canvas, and by the third morning it has moved to the fife rail beside your hand. Renn sends you for the tar pot and you find the bird perched on the lid, unbothered, its forked tail opening and closing like a pair of shears. You stand very still. It studies you the way the mate studies a badly coiled line.
On the fourth night a squall lays the ship over and the swallow vanishes into the dark. You spend the rest of the watch certain you have lost the only company worth having. Near dawn the cook finds it on the galley step, wings folded and feathers soaked. He carries it in his cupped hands to the stern rail and opens them, and it lifts into the grey light, swings low over the wake, then turns sharp for a coast none of you can see.
Renn says nothing. He just hands you the tar pot and nods at the mainmast, where a rope has begun to fray. Land is eleven days off, and somewhere behind the horizon that small bird is already heading home. You take up the brush and start on the splice, because a ship that is going somewhere needs its rigging kept true.
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