A woman in a white vest top rests her hand on her pregnant belly, with a small black fine line tattoo running along her forearm.

Fine line tattoo on the forearm of a pregnant woman

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A woman in a white tank top sits with one hand resting on her pregnant belly, her other hand cupping it from below, and a large pale stone ring on her finger. A thin black fine line tattoo of script or linework runs diagonally along her forearm, too small and partly obscured to read. The soft, warm lighting and tight crop focus on the hands, belly and arm, with her face out of frame.

Fine line Forearm Hand Ring Script Linework

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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

You have the lamp trimmed by four and the logbook open at the page where your father stopped writing. The wick smells of paraffin and sea salt. Below the gallery the Pilot's Bell clangs once, wrongly, the way it does when the swell comes round the Skerry from the north-east, and you think of the fishing boat Marigold that left Seahouses yesterday with nobody on the radio to tell her the weather had turned.

Keep reading

Your father wrote in a hand so small the coastguard joked he needed a magnifier to sign his name. He kept his letters the same way: a few lines of script running diagonally across the page, from the bottom corner up toward the spine. Each one went into a biscuit tin with a pale stone ring he had turned on a lathe from a scrap of Whitby jet, and each was meant for whoever climbed the stairs after him. You have read eleven of them. The twelfth is folded inside the cover of the log.

You unfold it under the lamp. The ink has bled where his wrist rested on the wet paper, so the words slant like spray across glass. You tilt the page and squint until a line surfaces: keep the light on for the ones who cannot see it. Then the bell rings again, cleanly this time, and out past the Skerry a single white light blinks back at yours. Marigold is coming round. You top up the reservoir, close the tin, and leave the twelfth letter on the desk for the next keeper to find.