Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Nine Inch Nails logo on a forearm

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black ink tattoo of the Nine Inch Nails logo sits inside a rectangular frame on the forearm. Below the wordmark, thin vertical lines of varying lengths drip downwards across the skin, with some lines branching and tapering. The tattoo is solid black with no greys or colour, and the photograph is framed tightly on the arm against a dark background.

Forearm Frame

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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

Ruth had locked the forme herself the night before, three capitals set in a steel rectangle, the letters standing tall and unforgiving in their wooden case. By six the press room smelled of paraffin and cold iron. Nobody had warned her the ink would be so thick in the heat, or that the rollers would sigh like something alive when she pulled the first sheet.

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The proof came off the bed black and clean, the wordmark sharp as a cut. But when she lifted it to the lamp, thin lines ran down from beneath the letters, stringing the page like rain on a window. She checked the rollers, the ink duct, the dampening. Every fix made it worse. Old Mr Tebbutt, who had run the works since the war, stood in the doorway and watched her hold the sheet up to the light.

"Leave it," he said. "Print the run. Whatever's dripping is the bit people will remember." She wanted to argue, but he had already gone down the stairs, his shoes loud on the iron treads, and she was left with two hundred sheets and a voice in her head insisting the mistake was hers.

She printed them all. Weeks later a van came for the bundles, and a boy at the loading dock turned one over, the lines running off the edge into the margin. He laughed and asked whether she'd meant it. She said yes, because by then it was the only true answer she had.