Close-up of a small fine line tattoo of a half sun rising above a horizon with short rays, on the upper arm of a person with a bent elbow.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small sunrise tattoo on upper arm

Fine line · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows a half sun sitting on a straight horizon line, with four short rays radiating above it. It is drawn in thin, single black linework with no shading or fill. The photo is a close, slightly angled view of the outer upper arm, with a white top and grey patterned skirt visible in the background.

Fine line Upper arm Sun Horizon Ray

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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 are the last one awake when the Wheel of Fortune comes down. Gerry has already gone to sleep in the cab of the Bedford, and the field outside Boston smells of diesel and wet cut grass. Nobody else is up to see the lorries grind out of the gate, so the job falls to you: walk the perimeter, count the tent pegs, make sure the generator is cold.

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Your mother ran the coconut shy for thirty years and never once missed the sunrise. She said a fair was only honest at dawn, when the lights were off and the painted horses looked tired and ordinary. You used to think it was a daft thing to say. Now you stand by the big top's ropes waiting for the east to go pale over the sugar beet.

It comes up slowly, the way it does in flat country, a thin line of gold where the earth stops pretending to be level. You count the rays the way she taught you, four if you're being strict and five if you're being kind. Then you fold the last canvas and think about the pencil drawings she kept in a Peek Frean tin under the till: one sun every time, always half-sunk, always sitting on a line she'd ruled with a spirit level and a bit of spit.

You take a stub of carpenter's pencil from your back pocket and draw the sun on the back of a spent ride ticket, the way she would have. It isn't very good. The rays go wonky and the horizon dips at one end. Somewhere past Spalding the real sun clears the hedge, and you tap the ticket against the steering wheel for luck before you wake Gerry and put your foot down, letting the morning get ahead of you.