Black ink dreamcatcher with three hanging feathers and small script around the hoop, on the inner forearm above a woven wrist band.

Dreamcatcher with feathers on the forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A dreamcatcher with a circular web, three hanging feathers and a short arc of small script around the hoop is tattooed on the inner forearm. The linework is fine and dark, with soft shading on the feathers and the web giving them some depth. The image is entirely black and grey, with a woven fabric band worn just above the tattoo and a plain outdoor background.

Fine line Forearm Dreamcatcher Feather Script Web

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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 hoop came down from the hayloft the week the beck froze solid, wrapped in a feed sack and smelling of mouse and paraffin. Your uncle Ned had bent it from willow he cut himself the summer before he went into hospital. The web inside was knotted from baler twine, a little crooked, every ring pulled tight by hands that never trusted a machine to do a job properly. Three pheasant feathers hung from the bottom, grey-brown and stiff, and round the rim someone had scratched words so small you needed the lamp to read them.

Keep reading

The words were from his last letter, the one that came in October asking you to look after the top field. You had read it at the kitchen table with your boots still wet. Keep the gate chained, it said. The ewes will push at it. Dream of lambs, not the lorry. You had laughed at that line, then stopped laughing, because the lorry was the thing that had taken him to the city and kept him there.

You hung the hoop on the nail above the range on the coldest night of the year, the one when the trough cracked and the dog would not come out of the porch. Sleep came badly. You lay listening to the house tick and settle, and somewhere after three you heard the chain rattle at the bottom field, then a long quiet that felt like someone standing just outside the frost on the sill.

In the morning the web was furred white, every ring jewelled with rime, and the feathers had stiffened into the shape of folded hands. The gate was still chained. Out in the top field the ewes stood in a loose cluster facing the house, breath rising in threads, and as the sun cleared the ridge the frost on the wire began to drip, one bead at a time, along the line where his writing had been.