Fine line black and grey tattoo of a kite with a trailing tail on the upper arm, just below a dark t-shirt sleeve.

Kite tattoo on an upper arm

Fine line · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A small kite is drawn in thin black linework with a shaded lower sail and a cross-shaped frame. A dotted tail with small bow-like marks trails diagonally down the arm. The kite sits on bare skin against a plain background, with the wearer's dark t-shirt sleeve in the upper frame.

Fine line Upper arm String Tail

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

The rain had got into the paper before you did. Dilys lifted the kite off its hook, shook the water from the sail and held it up against the grey light over Ferrier Street market, where the awnings sagged and the gutters ran brown with leaves. 'Won't fly today,' she said. 'Wet paper's just a heavy envelope.' You had come for it anyway, the one with the cross-shaped spars and the lower sail shaded dark, as if someone had pressed a thumb into it.

Keep reading

She took the tail from the hook and tied on the bows, one small knot every few feet, the way her father had taught her on the sea wall at Kettle Bay. 'Every bow's a gust you didn't wait for,' she said. 'Dry days, you'll get them back.' You counted six before the spool ran out, and the rain thickened until the stalls across the square went soft at the edges, like a photograph left in a bath.

You paid in coins warm from your pocket. Outside, the wind came up off the river all at once, the way it does in March, and the kite on the stall next door lifted clean off its hook and went over the roofs. Dilys didn't look up. 'That one's been waiting all week,' she said, and handed you the string.

You ran with it. The tail snapped out behind you, bows knocking at the air, and the wet sail caught at last, tugging like something alive at the end of your hand. By the time you reached the bridge the market was a smudge of awnings, and the string was singing the whole way up.