Small black fine line anchor tattoo with a loop around the shank, on the inner forearm of a person with pale skin.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small anchor tattoo on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small anchor tattoo sits on the inner forearm, centred on a pale arm against a dark background. The design uses thin black linework, with the anchor's shank passing through a open loop and the flukes curving outward at the base. The ink is solid black with no shading, and the simple composition leaves plenty of clear skin around the motif.

Fine line Forearm Anchor Loop Nautical

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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 iron ring in the south wall had been there longer than the garden, Maud reckoned, and nobody had thought to take it down when the boats stopped mooring at the bottom of Tallow Steps. She stood on an upturned crate with a coil of tarred twine over one shoulder and tried to remember what her father had called the hitch. Clove, he'd said. Two turns and a tuck, so the weight pulled the knot tighter rather than looser.

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The clematis had been Alfie's idea, planted the spring before he went to sea for the last time. He had never come back to see it flower, and for six years it had sprawled along the wall like something that had given up, its stems snapping in February gales and lying in the bed like dropped wire. Maud had cut it back twice and resented it both times. The third spring she decided it needed a proper support, not the rotten trellis that had collapsed under its own ambition.

She threaded the twine through the ring, looped it round a stem, and drew the hitch tight. The stem resisted, then gave, and she felt the small strain travel up the line into her wrist, the way a boat's weight once travelled into her father's hands on the quay. She worked upward one knot at a time until the stems lifted off the mortar and reached for the sky.

By June the clematis had climbed past the coping and started feeding itself through the gutter. Maud sat on the crate with a cup of tea going cold and watched a bee work the purple flowers. She had tied the thing up so it could grow, and the ring, which had held nothing for fifty years, was holding it now.