Fine line black ink city skyline tattoo on the side of a bare back and ribs, shown in a black and white photograph.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

City skyline fine line tattoo on the ribs

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A thin, single-line skyline of rooftops and towers runs across the side of the torso, with a few small dots above it. The linework is fine and even, with no shading, and the ink is black. The photograph is black and white, and the tattoo sits in the lower part of the frame against the pale skin.

Fine line Ribs Skyline City Building Tower Dot

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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 wake before the alarm because the boat has changed its note under you, the engine dropping to a murmur as the skipper noses her out past the breakwater. Somebody has left the wheelhouse light on. Through the salt-gummed porthole you can make out the town the way you always see it from the water: a ragged line of roofs, the church spire the fishermen call the needle, the two cranes at the fish quay standing like herons. Above them the first gulls are already wheeling over the market stalls.

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Nobody has told you yet that this is the last trip of the Marguerite. Dessie Corrigan will tell you over tea in the galley, in the flat voice he keeps for weather and debts, and you will pretend you knew. You have spent six seasons learning how to pretend things, how to bait a hook without flinching and how to look at the horizon when a grown man cries in the next bunk. The town behind you goes on being the town. Its lights are small and yellow, and there are not so many of them any more.

Out past the buoy the sky begins to pale over the Skerries, and you count the lights on the shore the way your mother taught you to count stitches, one, two, three, until you lose track and simply watch. Somewhere in that huddle a window is still lit, and you decide it is hers, though she would laugh at you for deciding it. You lift a hand. Nothing answers, which is fair. The boat keeps its heading, and the line of the land thins to a thread, then to a row of dots, then to nothing but a notch cut against the morning.