Fine line black botanical tattoos of a feathery herb sprig and a flower stem on the inner forearms of two arms.

Herb sprig and flower stem on forearms

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two black line tattoos sit on the inner forearms, a feathery herb sprig on the left arm and a flower stem with two leaves on the right. The linework is fine and even, with small shaded areas on the leaves and no solid fill. The pale skin and dark patterned top behind the arms create strong contrast, and the arms are framed closely in the composition.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Flower Stem Leaves Botanical

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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

Mind the step, it's iced over, and keep that dog off the rug or he'll have the crumbs from your coat. Right, sit. The winter the beck froze to its bed, Hester Vane had two daughters at Lower Hollin, and they agreed on nothing except the old garden wall.

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Nell took the snapdragon that grew from a crack in the north side, and Bea took the rosemary by the pump, because rosemary was for remembering and Bea never forgot a slight. They pressed their cuttings into jam jars on the kitchen sill and swore they would post a sprig to each other every January, wrapped in wet newspaper, so the other would know the roots still held.

Nell went south to a laundry in Bristol and wrote seldom. Bea stayed, married the postman's boy, and kept the range lit. Each January a parcel came up the lane. Some years the rosemary was black at the tips from the journey. Some years the snapdragon arrived with its flowers shut tight like fists, and Bea would hold them to the window and say nothing to anyone.

The January the beck froze, the parcel held a snapdragon bound in foil and a note in Nell's cramped hand: Yours never came. I think you let it die on purpose. Bea laughed until she had to sit down, because her rosemary had died in the drought, she was certain of it, and she had not sent a sprig in three years. She went out to the pump in her boots, and there, grown tall against the stones where the sun found it, was a green shoot she had never planted. Some things are stubborn enough to root themselves. Now mind the step on your way out.