Close-up of two small solid black bird silhouettes in flight on the inner forearm near the wrist.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Two small birds on a wrist

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close-up photograph of a hand and forearm with two small, solid black bird silhouettes in flight, one above and to the left of the other. The birds have simple filled shapes with no interior linework or shading. The background is softly out of focus in blue and dark tones, which keeps attention on the tattoo.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down, sit down, you're letting the heat in. Right. There were two swifts that nested under the water tower at Sand Wick, and every morning in June they came out over the road, one a length ahead of the other, the way a sheepdog runs ahead of a man who has lost his temper.

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The young one always led. Her name was Tamsin Reel, which is a name for a girl who sings, and she had a voice like a bent nail rattling in a tin. Her brother Gil flew behind, close enough to catch the draught off her wings, because he was afraid of the dark stretch past the cattle grid. Every dusk the road went grey and then black, and the lorries came up it with their lamps on full, and Gil would drop back until he could barely make her out.

One evening a dust storm shut the road and the birds came down on the white line in the middle, where nothing could hit them. Gil said he would fly home. Tamsin said the road ran all the way to the sea and they had only to keep the lamps in sight. He said the lamps were just lights, not stars. She laughed, folded herself down so her shadow lay flat on the tarmac in front of him, black and steady. Follow that, she said. It will always be lying down where you can see it.

They flew the whole night on each other's shadows, and by morning the water tower was a speck behind them and the sea a grey line ahead. That's the story, and there's no moral to it, so don't go looking for one. Finish your tea.

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