Memorial Forearm Tattoos Novels & Stories

" Did you remember seeing anything else that day?" She squinted her eyes, rubbing her forehead as she tried to remember what occured that day. " I saw something." She closed her eyes as she spoke. " An A, one of the guys had an A tattooed on their left arm" My blood ran cold. An "A" there was only person who could have done that... My bones shook, a chill rolling up my spine. Arrow.

I’m stronger than this. The tattoo on my thigh peeks out from the slit of my dress. A lioness emerging from the thorns, a symbol of strength, confidence, independence, perseverance, power. A reminder of who I am despite my shortcomings and mistakes. And then the trinket of my bracelet catches my eye. The one my dad gave to me years ago that I pretty much never take off even though one of the charms are very sharp I had even cut myself before, enough to draw blood. My eyes flick up to meet Andreas’ once more as I loosen my grip on Demetrius. Without another word, I move towards Andreas’ extended hand.

It was a testament to his unwavering dedication to all aspects of his physical fitness. One of the most striking features on Logan's left arm was the anchor tattoo, a symbol known to represent strength and stability, perhaps even serving as a connection to his time in the marine. Yet, what made this tattoo particularly intriguing was an unexpected addition. Just below the anchor, a smaller, seemingly incongruous tattoo came into view. This tattoo was a depiction of a little girl holding a toy, a charming but puzzling image etched onto his skin. It seemed to tell a story of its own, one that didn't readily align with the symbolism of the anchor.

The water hits my back at just the right temperature and I move my hand over my back but then I move my hand to my wrist. I look at it with a sad smile on my face when I see the tattoo I'd gotten. It is an infinity tatoo , in the infinity are two butterflies on either side each one representing the each family member I lost . And the only one I had well that was until my uncle and aunt lived with me in ghe mansion and treated me like their own.

A second masked man had appeared and had succinctly sneaked up to deliver the blow. Fuck it! Fuck being weak! Before my consciousness went off, I caught sight of the tattoo mark on the shoulder of the second man. His sleeveless arm featured the tattoo of a tiger, a snake and a crown. That insignia was very familiar. But my brain couldn't conjure where I had seen it before. I kept staring at it as my eyes shuttered to a close, just then an image popped up in my mind's eye. Wait….what the actual hell?

The symbols seemed to have extended. In Arerat, the tattoo was a butterfly in my palm and claw prints under it, down to below my wrist. But right now, it was extended down to the back of my elbow, just below my upper arm. The last pair of claw prints that lay in-between the upper arm and the lower arm began to glow warmly. I could feel a soul connection with it. It's the exact feeling I got when Little Wolfy gave me its blood essence from it's glabella to join the contract of beast and beast tamer. It was as if I just...

He can’t spare me, no matter how compliant I am. He stands from the bed and removes every piece of clothing from his body. The tattoos expand from his chest to his stomach, down to his strong torso. Black ink against his tanned skin. There are so many things written in Russian. But one particular thing catches my eye, it’s on his left torso, big and clear, “ To forgive is to sin.” The words send shivers racing down my spine. Who on earth writes something like that on their body? Not just write, but brand it into their skin permanently.

I have my own loved one to worry about. I put my forehead in my hands and close my eyes. “Milo, please, Babe. Please answer me. I can’t take it anymore. Just tell me you’re safe. Tell me you’re alive in one of the ambulances or something.” A sooty hand rests on my knee. My breath catches in my chest when I see it. There’s a tattoo of a wolf covered in a floral bed sheet on top of his wrist. The wolf’s tail is sticking out from under the sheet and there are holes for his nose and steel-gray eyes. He got the tattoo because we were drunk one night and thought the idea of Ghost being terrible at being an actual ghost was hilarious. The next morning, we woke up naked in the meadow. He had the tat

“I’ve never really looked at you this way. But now, it’s all starting to make sense. The date on your forearm…” I let my gaze drift lower, tracing the sharp lines of his torso. There were other tattoos scattered across his skin—fragments of a story only he knew. A Latin phrase curved along his collarbone, the ink bold and deliberate, “Memento Mori”—remember you must die. “Hayden?” He whimpered in his sleep. And groaned. I lifted my gaze to his face. Hayden whimpered softly, tossing in his sleep. Tears ran down his temples. Pain was written all over his face, frozen somewhere beneath a nightmare and a cursed reality he couldn’t escape from.

A few faint bruises lingered along my ribs from the gym, reminders that I didn’t know how to pull punches, even with myself. Across my left shoulder blade ran a thick scar, pale and uneven, slashing diagonally down toward my spine. I traced it absently with my fingertips, the skin raised but familiar. Eight years old, I thought, remembering the crash. The burning metal. The sound of my mother’s voice before everything went white. It never fully healed right, but it had stopped hurting long ago. Tattoos covered much of what the scar didn’t, black ink coiling down my arms in deliberate, measured symmetry. Script in Latin along one forearm read Vincit qui se vincit, He conquers who conquers him