Fine line black tattoo of a small symbol on the inner wrist of a person wearing a striped tunic and white trousers.

Small line symbol on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A person in a white and black striped tunic and white trousers walks past a white brick wall, with their arm bent and the hand hanging at the side. A small black tattoo of a simple line symbol sits on the wrist, drawn in thin, even linework. The image is in black and grey with a neutral, bright composition, and the tattoo is a minor detail in a fashion shot.

Fine line Forearm Symbol Line drawing Small tattoo

Find an artist for this

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

Agnes Holt had counted the keys twice before the pass closed, and twice she came up one short. The board behind the desk held eleven brass hooks. Eleven guests were asleep upstairs, and the twelfth room, the little attic under the eaves, had been locked since the October her father died.

Keep reading

Her brother Tom said the wind had taken it, the way it took shutters and the odd lamb from the lower field. But Agnes knew the key. Its loop was worn thin and bent like a fishhook, and she had hung it on the board herself that evening. She took a candle up past the stove-warm landing, where a salesman from Leeds was snoring through the wall, and climbed the narrow stair to the attic.

The door stuck, then gave. Snow had sifted through a gap in the slates and lay in a pale fan across the boards. It was unbroken except for one line of small prints running to the window. On the sill sat the key, its loop hooked neatly over a nail, and beneath it lay a folded note in her father's square capitals: KEEP ONE ROOM FOR WHOEVER THE WEATHER BRINGS.

She read it twice, the way she had counted the keys. Then she pocketed the key, pinched out the candle, and went down to hang it back on the board. By morning the drifts had covered the prints, the pass was open, and the twelfth hook held its key, and nobody at breakfast asked who had slept above the snow.