Fine line black script running down a forearm, with a small sun tattoo on the back of the hand and a small arrow on the wrist.

Script lettering and small sun tattoos on forearms

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A seated person in a grey t-shirt and denim shorts holds their hands together in front of their thighs, with the face and upper body cropped out of frame. Several small black tattoos are visible: thin script lettering runs along the inner forearm, a small sun or starburst sits on the back of one hand, and a small arrow or anchor shape with a line of script appears near the other wrist. The ink is solid black with no colour, and the image is a sharp, evenly lit phone photograph.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Hand Script Lettering Sun Arrow Anchor Word

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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

Mrs Pardoe kept the sign above the door of Sunnyside House for thirty-one summers, and in all that time nobody had ever signed the register in ink that stayed wet. The lodgers wrote in pencil, out of habit, and I let them. Then the Hartley boy came in off the coach with a canvas bag and a sun-faded sketchbook, and he signed his name in green ballpoint as if he meant to be remembered.

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He took the attic room with the sloping ceiling and the view of the harbour wall. Every morning he sat on the sill with his tea and drew the old anchor on the quay, the one rusted into the shape of a gull's wing. He said the sun was the only honest thing in Margate, because it came up whether anybody paid for it or not. I told him that was the sort of thing a man says just before he runs out on his bill.

He didn't run out. On the last evening he came down to the kitchen and asked for a pen. I gave him a sheet of writing paper from the sideboard drawer and the fountain pen I kept for birthday cards. He sat at the scrubbed table for a long while, then wrote a single line in small, careful capitals along the stairwell wall, drew a sun above it with twelve rays, and put an arrow pointing at the front door.

"For whoever comes next," he said, and went out with his bag before I could ask him what it meant. I still haven't painted over it. Every guest who climbs those stairs stops at the landing, reads the line, and goes on up a little slower than they came down.