Black and grey fine line tattoo of a shaded feather joined to an infinity symbol with the words stay strong, on the inner forearm.

Feather and infinity script on an arm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A shaded feather rests on the left of an infinity symbol, and the words stay strong are written in flowing script along the loop. The linework is fine and consistent, with soft grey shading on the feather's barbs and plumes. The tattoo is shown in black and grey against a dark background, centred on the arm.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Feather Infinity symbol Stay strong Script Word

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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

Mind the stile, it's rotten through, and don't go pulling at that bramble, it bites. Sit close where I can see your faces. Now, the tale of Nell Crabbe and the grey jay of Hollin Wood, which is true, as true as the oaks that grew from the acorns that jay forgot.

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Nell's husband went out to the salt marsh one November and never came home. Every morning after that she walked the wood path from her cottage to the church and back, the long way round, past the holly and the dead ash and the pond with the sunken cart in it. She never once walked it straight. A straight road, she said, only takes you to the thing you're dreading. So she went round and round, the way the old line on the parish map loops back on itself.

One morning a jay dropped a feather at her feet, grey and barred with dark like a ledger page. She picked it up and turned it to the light. Her mother-in-law had always said a feather in the path was the wood telling you to keep your feet moving. So Nell pinned it to her coat and kept walking. Nobody in the village could say what she was walking towards, only that she never stopped.

Come spring the feather was worn to a bare quill, and Nell's step had lengthened. Folk said she'd found her footing. I'll tell you what I think. She left the quill on the lych gate, where it still sits if you look. Go on, look. Grey as wet slate, and the wind has never once shifted it.