Two forearms covered in small black line doodle tattoos of dice, lightning bolts, arrows, a pentagram and the word GHOUL, with dark nail polish on the hands.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small doodle symbols on forearms

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two forearms are covered in many small tattoos of simple black line doodles, including a twenty-sided die, an eye, lightning bolts, arrows, a pentagram, an axe and a fish skeleton. The linework is thin and unshaded, with the motifs scattered loosely across the wrists and forearms rather than arranged in a single composition. The image is in black ink only and is set against pale, mottled fabric with a dark sleeve cuff at the bottom.

Fine line Forearm Dice Eye Lightning bolt Arrow Pentagram Axe Triangle Bottle Hand Doodle

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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 map is the wrong one, and you know it, because the lake printed on it has been dry since before your father was born. Still, you spread it across the steering wheel at the last junction before the Spur and trace the pencil marks Ada left in the margins: a twenty-sided die, a lightning bolt, an axe, a bottle with its cork pushed in. She swore they were directions. Every game of her childhood ended with a roll and a made-up rule, and she never once lost the thread.

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By nine the sand has crept over the verge and the headlights only find the next post. A fish skeleton hangs from the third one, bleached white, and you stop because the sign she drew beneath it says WELL, and there is one, a concrete ring with a rusted pulley and a glass bottle wedged in the mud beside it. Inside the bottle is a slip of card. The arrow on it points north-east, towards a mesa with a grin cut into its face, and under the arrow, in her hand: GHOUL'S TOLL, PAY IN STORIES.

You take the twenty-sided die from the glovebox, the one she always left rolling under the seats, and cast it onto the bonnet. It lands on one. You laugh, then you don't, because the number is hers and so is the bottle, and the road is a line she drew to bring you here. You turn the car around anyway, because some games are only worth playing once.

The engine ticks as it cools. Behind you the mesa keeps its grin, and the road home is still the only one you recognise.