Black and grey dreamcatcher tattoo with shaded feathers on the upper arm, with a web pattern in the large circular hoop.

Dreamcatcher tattoo on upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A large dreamcatcher sits on the upper arm, with a circular hoop containing a radial web pattern and three smaller hoops hanging beneath it. Four shaded feathers hang from the hoops, with soft grey gradients and fine dark outlines. The tattoo is shown in black ink and greys, filling most of the frame against a plain light background.

Realism Geometric Upper arm Dreamcatcher Feather Web Hoop

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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

The sports hall still smells of floor polish, though someone has hung fairy lights from the climbing ropes and the caterers have set out sausage rolls on paper doilies. You peel a name badge from its sheet and write your name in capitals, then stop, because the pen has gone dry on the first letter and you have to press hard to finish it. Nobody here will recognise the handwriting anyway.

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Across the room, Dev Rennie is telling a circle of people about the chemistry lab fire, and he still does the hand movements. You drift closer and catch the end of it. Then he sees you and his face does the thing it did in Year Nine, a slow remembering. 'You still got that daft web thing in your hall?' he says. Your mum's dreamcatcher, the willow hoop with its neat web of waxed thread, hangs above the coats at home, and the three little rings beneath it have never been replaced, even when the feathers wore thin. You tell him yes.

'She said it catches the bad stuff and lets the rest drift through the middle,' you say. Dev laughs. 'Did it work?' You think about the nights you lay awake in the spare room, listening to the draught from the front door set the feathers turning, and how the web never seemed to hold anything except the light from the street. 'Mostly it just made a noise,' you say, and he nods as if that is the most sensible answer he has heard all evening.

On the way out you pass the trophy cabinet, where a photo of the whole year group hangs crooked behind the glass. Somebody has drawn a small spider on the glass, right where your name sits underneath, and you find yourself smiling at it as you button your coat and step into the car park, where the dark is cold and clean.