Fine line black script reading follow your heart with a thin arrow and small heart below it, on the inner forearm.

Follow your heart script and arrow on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a forearm showing the words follow your heart written in a fine, joined black script that runs diagonally up towards the wrist. Beneath the lettering, a thin single-line arrow with a small solid heart on its shaft points to the right. The ink is a dark, uniform black on pale skin, and the bright, warm-toned lighting leaves the background mostly white.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Phrase Arrow Heart

Find an artist for this

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

By four o'clock the Cragg road had vanished under the snow, and you stood behind the bar of the Hollin Inn counting clean glasses that did not need counting. The fire had sunk to a red breathing thing. Mrs Hartley had gone up to bed with her cat and her grievances, leaving you alone with the clock and the wind worrying at the shutters.

Keep reading

The stranger came in just before the lamps were lit, shaking flakes from a coat the colour of wet slate. He asked for a room and a pint, and then, unfolding a map on the sticky oak, he asked whether anyone in the valley knew a woman called Imogen Vale. You did not. But he pointed to a pencilled line running from the inn's door across the fells, and to a small mark at its end: a single arrow with a little heart on its shaft. 'She said that if I ever lost the road, I should follow the heart,' he said. 'I have always found that a poor instruction for a surveyor.'

You laughed, and he did too, and for an hour you talked about boundary stones and the foolishness of maps. When you came down at six the bench by the hearth was empty. The map lay folded on the table with the arrow turned towards the door, and beside it a bread knife held down a note against the draught. The words were written in a looping hand: 'The beck freezes last at the hollow. Mind the stile. Tell Mrs Hartley I paid for the pint.'

Outside, the snow had stopped, and the sky above the moor was the pale green of early light. In the drift by the gate, a single line of boot prints led up towards the stile, neat and unhurried, as though whoever made them had never once doubted the way. You pulled your scarf tight, took the lantern from its hook, and went after them.