Close photo of a hand resting on a black top, showing a small black lightning bolt tattoo on the inner forearm near the wrist.

Lightning bolt tattoo on a forearm

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A hand with several silver rings, one linked by a fine chain, rests against black clothing. A small black lightning bolt tattoo sits on the inner forearm near the wrist, drawn as a single tapered solid line in black ink. The composition is close and cropped, with the tattoo placed on the right side of the frame.

Forearm Lightning bolt Hand Ring Jewellery

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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

The storm had been over Tyne Bridge for an hour, but the streets still shone with it. Mags Doyle counted the rain drips falling off the awning of the Odeon while the bloke from the stationers finished his cigarette and pretended not to watch her. She had the brass key in her coat pocket, the one that opened the back door of the Calder Street electrical substation, and nothing else that mattered.

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The job was simple on paper. Ten minutes inside, one relay swapped for a dead copy, and the whole grid on the east side would blink for four seconds before the engineers rebooted it. Four seconds was enough for a safe to go quiet. Her cousin Dez had sold her the plan at the Crown for the price of a round, and she had let him, because nobody in Newcastle ever paid full price for a bad idea.

Inside, the air hummed like a held note. The relay cabinet was humming too, a thin blue sound that climbed up her arm and settled behind her wrist. She reached for the dead copy and stopped. Someone had scratched a line into the metal beside the bank of switches, a single jagged stroke, fresh enough to shine. Beneath it, in pencil, a time: 02:14. It was 02:13.

She swapped the relay anyway. Four seconds later, every streetlight on Calder Street went out at once, and in the dark she heard the hiss of a bolt cracking the sky over the river, close enough to taste. She walked out into the rain with her hand over her wrist, laughing without sound, and never once looked back at the door.