Fine line black tattoo of a girl in a billowing dress holding a kite string, with the kite high above, on the inner forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Girl flying a kite on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single girl stands on grass near the wrist, her hair and dress blown sideways by the wind as she holds a kite string. The kite sits higher up the forearm, with its long thin line trailing down towards her hand. The linework is fine and even, with no shading, and the tattoo is in black ink only against pale skin.

Fine line Forearm Girl String Grass Dress Wind

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The kite would not stay down, and that was the trouble with it. Brother Osric saw it rise off the water meadow below the abbey wall three mornings running, a diamond of oiled paper on cane, and each morning the girl holding its string had stood a little nearer the gate. The Abbot had said nothing could fly over holy ground. Nobody had said what to do about a child who flew it from the far side of the ditch.

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Osric went down with bread for the reed-cutters, which was his office, and found her at the ditch edge with her skirt snapping about her legs. Her name was Tamsin. Her grandmother had told her the wind was the only thing God gave the poor for nothing. "And what do you do with it?" he asked. "I hold on," she said, and let out another arm's length of string, and the kite leaned hard against the sky as if it meant to take her with it.

In November a gale came off the marsh and the string parted at the knot. The kite went over the wall and down into the herb garden, where Brother Cuthbert found it tangled in the rosemary and carried it to the Abbot as though it were a relic. The Abbot turned it over twice, then hung it from a nail in the cloister, where it stayed. Tamsin did not come for a month. Osric heard her grandmother had died, and he thought of the string.

At Candlemas she came back with a new ball of linen thread and a kite of her own making, and she asked for nothing. Osric tied one end of the thread to the latch on the postern gate and carried the ball out to her across the ditch plank. When the wind came up she let it run, and the kite climbed, and every brother who passed the garden that afternoon stopped to watch it go.