Fine line black tattoo on the inner forearm of a suitcase with stickers, sunglasses and the word wanderlust, with a dotted line leading to a paper aeroplane.

Suitcase and paper plane on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows a suitcase decorated with stickers, a pair of sunglasses at the lower left, and the script word wanderlust running across the suitcase. A dotted line continues from the suitcase to a small paper aeroplane at the upper right. The linework is fine and even in black ink, with no shading or colour, and the design sits diagonally along the forearm against a dark background.

Fine line Forearm Paper plane Sunglasses Dotted line Script Wanderlust

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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

Don't you look at me like that, Kenny. Sit on the third step where the lino's not cracked and I'll tell you how your great-nan left Block Nine with one suitcase and a plane made from a council letter. She bought that case off Mr Okafor's stall on the Saturday market for four pounds, brown plastic with a clasp that wouldn't hold, so she strapped it shut with her dad's belt. Then she went round the stalls sticking on anything free: a Blackpool sticker, a palm tree off a postcard from Lisbon that nobody in our street had ever seen, and a little pair of sunglasses she wore down the stairs as if it were July.

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The lift had been broken since Easter, so she carried that case fourteen floors and stood out on the walkway at the top, puffing like a kettle. The wind came up off the railway lines and over the car park, and she folded the page the council had sent her into a plane, all sharp corners and no nonsense. She wrote one word along the side of the suitcase in biro first, because she said if you were going to leave, you ought to say what you were leaving for. Wanderlust. She'd heard it on the radio that morning and liked the sound of it, the way it made your mouth go round.

She threw the plane. It dipped, came back up, and rode the air right out over the rooftops towards the motorway. Everybody thought it was lost. It wasn't. Three weeks later a postcard came to the flat with no stamp and a picture of a lighthouse on it, and on the back, in her handwriting, just one line: Still going. So go on, fetch me that case from the cupboard under the stairs. It's not packed yet, and I've still got a plane to throw.