Small black fine line tattoo of a winged unicorn outline on the forearm.

Small unicorn outline on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small outline tattoo of a cartoon-style unicorn with a pointed horn, a wing, a flowing mane and tail, and simple stub legs. It is drawn in thin, even black linework with no shading or fill, and the unfilled skin shows through the body. The design sits alone in the centre of a plain, pale forearm against a dark background.

Fine line Forearm Unicorn Horn Wing Mane Tail Outline

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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 horse has to be talked onto the towpath every morning, and today it is you who must do the talking, because Mr Pruett's knees are finished and the Ellen Mae is going down to Ely whether or not the lock keeper likes the look of her. You hold the lead rope in one hand and a tin of bran in the other and you say nothing clever, only the same thing you always say, that the river is wide and the willows are sleeping and nobody is going to ask you to carry anything heavier than a bucket.

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The mare is called Dapple, though there is not a dapple on her, only a white coat gone grey at the muzzle and a way of standing square in the mud as if she has been painted there. You have learned to watch her ears. When they flick back you step aside, and when they point at the bridge you wait. This morning they point at the mist lying low over the cut, where a single bird is lifting out of the reeds with a sound like tearing silk, and for one moment you swear the mare lifts her head as though she has seen something in the vapour that is not there at all.

By noon the barge is through the lock and the sun has burned the fog away. Mr Pruett sits on the cabin roof with his pipe and watches you coil the tow line. He says the mare has been thinking about the old story again, the one about the animal that came out of the marsh and let only maidens touch its horn, and you tell him she has never cared for maidens, only oats. He laughs until he coughs. You do not tell him that when you walked her past the reeds this morning, you felt, quite plainly, the weight of a horn, a single cold point of it, pressing your shoulder like a question nobody had asked yet.