Black and grey fine line tattoos on a forearm, including small script reading BE IT and an outlined animal on the lower arm, with the wearer's arms crossed over a dark jacket.

Fine line lettering and animal tattoos on forearms

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A person in a black shearling-lined jacket and layered gold necklaces has their arms crossed over their chest, with the forearms showing several small tattoos. The upper forearm has a short word in thin capital lettering, a small outlined shape and a curved line, while the lower forearm has a larger outlined animal, possibly an elephant, with fine dotted and linear details. The ink is black and grey, the lighting is soft and the framing is close, centred on the arms.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Animal Elephant Outline Hand

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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 last 4 bus noses into the depot at Hunslet just after two, its doors sighing open, and you are already reaching for the lost property sack before the driver has finished swearing at the heater. Inside: a child's wellington, three umbrellas, a glove stiff with rain, and a pocket watch on a broken chain that has stopped at twenty past three. Nobody has ever claimed a watch from you. Nobody ever claims anything good.

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Dana from days says the watch belonged to a man called Ferris, who rode the route every Friday to visit his sister in the care home on Dewsbury Road, and who once told the whole top deck that elephants never forget a face. 'Rubbish,' she says. 'They forget plenty. They just keep walking.' You put the watch in your coat pocket anyway, because the chain is cold against your palm and it feels rude to leave it in a sack.

On the Friday you ride the 4 yourself as far as the care home. The sister is awake, sitting by a window with a blanket over her knees, and she looks at the watch in your hand for a long time before she says 'Ferris' the way you might say the name of a stop you have not passed in years. She asks if he sent you. You say no, but you give her the watch, and she holds it to her ear the way you hold a shell.

On the way back the bus is empty except for a woman feeding crisps to nobody, and the streetlights run past the window like a long grey trunk. You do not wind the watch. You let it stay where it is, stopped, which is the only honest thing a lost thing can do.