Close view of a small black crown tattoo on the inner wrist and forearm of a person whose bare legs are bent in the background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small crown tattoo on the wrist

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small black crown sits on the inner wrist and lower forearm, drawn with a solid outline and filled dark areas. The person's hands are clasped above the wrist, and only the arm, hands, bent bare legs and a white garment are visible, with the head cropped out of frame. The photograph uses warm, soft lighting on a wooden surface, and the tattoo is the focal point in the centre of the frame.

Forearm Crown

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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

You arrive at the Palais on Saturday with your shoes wrapped in newspaper, because Mr Hobday the caretaker still charges sixpence extra for scuffed heels. The band is already sweating through a quickstep and the floor smells of French chalk and spilt shandy. Your sister Ivy has pinned a paper crown to her hair for the Bluebell Cup, a tin trophy the committee gives to whichever pair turns the most heads, and she means to take it home.

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Her partner is Teddy Marsh, a lad from the gasworks who dances as if he is carrying a tray of full cups. You watch from the edge of the floor by the radiators, where the coats pile up. Mrs Fenn at the ticket table says the judges want a clean line and a proud chin. Ivy has both. What she lacks is patience, and when Teddy treads on her hem during the last waltz she spins out of his arms and marches straight towards you.

"Hold this," she says, and presses something warm into your palm: the paper crown, bent flat, with a biro smudge on one point. "If I'm going to lose, I'd rather lose it to you." Then she is gone, back into the lights. When the judges call the result, the tin cup goes to a couple from Ramsgate who never once looked at the floor.

At the door Ivy holds out her hand for the crown. You shake your head, fold it twice and slip it into your coat pocket, where it stays all the way home, still faintly smelling of chalk.