Black and white photo of a thin black fine line zigzag tattoo on the inner wrist and forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fine line zigzag on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single thin black line forms a jagged zigzag with a short branch crossing it, sitting across the inner wrist and lower forearm. The linework is crisp and unshaded, with no fill or shading around it. The photograph is in black and white, with a dark vignette at the edges and the skin lit softly in the centre.

Fine line Forearm Zigzag Line Abstract

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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 down, you lot, and hand me that colander before I forget my own name. Right. The Marigold Ann went out of Hull in the back end of November, with a cook called Tobias Pell in the galley, which was a hole the size of a wardrobe with one stove that smoked when it felt like it. Pell had a wife in Grimsby and a habit of talking to the potatoes.

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Three days south of Lowestoft the sky went the colour of wet slate, and the lightning came down the mainmast like a crack running through a plate. Nobody saw it strike. We saw the light of it through the porthole over the sink, a white line that jumped from the cloud to the iron, then split in two and ran off sideways across the water. Pell swore the mast had cracked along the line of it. The mate said he was drunk. The mast was fine. The sea was not.

Here is the thing I want you to understand. Pell went up on deck in the morning with a bucket of scraps for the gulls and found a single scorched thread along the rail, thin as a hair, running in zigzags from the mainmast towards the bow, with one short branch snapping off it like a twig. He traced it with his finger and it did not come off. Later, in the port of Ostend, a tattooist on the quay with a paraffin lamp and a bad cough inked the same shape onto the inside of his wrist, because Pell said a man should carry his weather with him.

So when the sea gets up, lads, you look at the wrist of a cook who has never once been struck by anything but a frying pan. Pass the bread.