Colour tattoo of Woodstock, the small yellow bird from Peanuts, with black outlines, sitting on a patch of green grass.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Woodstock from Peanuts on skin

Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows Woodstock, the small yellow bird from the Peanuts comic strip, in profile with his beak pointing right and a few feathers sweeping up from his head. Bold black outlines define the bird and its feathers, with soft yellow shading to give the body some form. He sits on a small clump of green grass that fades into the surrounding skin.

Bird Grass Cartoon

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You are the smallest thing left under the big top, which is why Mr Abernathy Fold keeps you in a biscuit tin on the caravan step. Nobody has bought a ticket to see the lion since the spring. The lion sleeps through the afternoons now, and the trapeze has been wrapped in tarpaulin since its rope frayed outside Swindon. What the show still has is you: a yellow bird with a crest that sweeps back like a bad haircut, and a clump of artificial grass the wardrobe mistress glued to a board.

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Every evening at seven you hop onto the grass and wait. The band plays the same three bars of a waltz. Mr Fold announces the Greatest Little Act in England, and you stare past the empty benches with your beak aimed at the exit. Mostly the wind comes under the flap and rattles the poles. Once a girl in a yellow raincoat clapped twice before her mother hurried her home.

One wet Tuesday in Hastings the canvas leaked onto the sawdust, and you went to the grass to sit out the rain. A van pulled up, and a man in a flat cap got out, and before he saw the show he saw you. He stood with the drips coming off his brim. You felt the old thrill from the first night, when a crowd goes quiet because it has forgotten what it came for. He did not buy a ticket. He paid eleven pounds for the grass board and carried it to his van as if it were a birdcage.

The next morning the field held only a tuft of grass in the mud where the board had stood, and you were perched on it, pecking at a worm the rain had left behind. Mr Fold swore at the weather. You did not mind. The worm was good, and the grass was still green enough for a bird who had never been told he was a grand finale.