Black and grey fine line feather tattoo running diagonally across the inner forearm of a person whose hand rests to the right.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Feather tattoo on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single feather is drawn in black and grey on the inner forearm, with its quill running from the elbow side towards the wrist. The barbs are rendered with fine, feathered linework and soft grey shading that gives the feather some depth. The pale arm rests against a blue and green dotted fabric, and the hand is relaxed to the right of the frame.

Fine line Forearm Feather

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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

Sit closer, the range only warms this side of the room, and mind the cat, she has opinions about feet. Now. Your great-grandfather, Tom Hebden, kept a goose called Sunday, and Sunday hated him with the whole of her small grey heart. Every morning she hissed at the yard gate, and every morning he opened it anyway, because nobody on this farm was going to be beaten by a bird.

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The January your great-grandmother went up to the hospital in Shrewsbury, the snow came off the Wrekin so thick the lane vanished. Tom sat at this table with the lamp turned low and a sheet of paper that had stayed blank for three days. He could not write a word that didn't sound like a lie. Then Sunday came in through the scullery door, shaking the frost off her wings, and dropped a single long feather on the flags by his boots.

He picked it up. It was the sort you could hold to the window and see the light through, the barbs so fine they looked like breath, all combed one way towards the point, as if the wind had lain down and stayed. He trimmed the tip with his penknife, dipped it in the ink, and wrote. He wrote about the frost on the cabbages, the new calf, the way the kettle sang when no one was listening. He did not write about the hospital. The feather did not need telling.

The letter reached her on the Tuesday, and she kept it in her apron pocket until the day she died. When the quill wore down to nothing, Tom pushed the stub into the straw by the gate. Sunday found it before breakfast and stood on it all afternoon, as if it had always been hers.