Black and grey fine line infinity symbol with the word love in script and a shaded feather, tattooed on the side of the torso.

Infinity symbol with love and a feather

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A fine line infinity symbol with the word love in cursive script inside the left loop, and a shaded feather beneath it that extends to the right. The feather uses soft grey shading and darker tones along its quill to give it depth, while the infinity line stays thin and crisp. The image is a close, straight-on view of the skin with a folded orange fabric at the top edge.

Fine line Realism Ribs Infinity Love Script Feather

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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 closer, the lot of you, the generator's coughing and I'll not shout over it. Now, the summer the Tallis Brothers' Golden Wheel came up the A49 with one lame horse and a bear called Duchess, there was a girl on the coconut shy named Nell Ashby who could knock a tin off the post at forty paces and never once hit a man where he lived.

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Her sweetheart was Eli, a rigger on the big wheel with grease to his elbows and a bent scrap of brass wire in his pocket. He twisted it into a sideways eight one wet evening behind the generator van and told her that was the sign for them. Round and round, he said, never the same town twice but always back to the same starting point, like a line that never has to stop. Nell wrote the word love inside the left loop in her best copperplate, because the Tallis mother had taught her script on the back of the ticket roll, and she thought that settled it.

The wheel jammed at Stourbridge in October. Eli went up to free a seat and the chain let go. They packed him in sawdust and drove on, because fairs don't wait. Nell worked the shy for three more seasons without once missing a tin she meant to hit. Each dusk, a single grey feather came down onto the canvas over her stall, and she tucked it in her pocket beside that loop of wire.

One evening at Hallow Fair the wheel stood still against a sky the colour of cold pewter, and a feather drifted down onto her tin ledge, slow as anything. She didn't reach for it. She just let it lie there, waiting for the next one to come round. So if you're stood at my shy with three balls and a grievance, mind the wind on the way down. Two pound a go, and the eight never ends, my love.