Fine line constellation tattoo of connected star dots on the upper chest near the shoulder, in black ink.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Constellation tattoo on the collarbone

Fine line · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A constellation made of small star dots joined by fine dotted lines, forming a triangle with a longer arc extending to the right. The linework is delicate and the stars are solid dots of slightly varied size, in grey-black ink. The tattoo sits on the collarbone area against soft, warm skin, with the shoulder curving away at the right edge of the frame.

Fine line Chest Constellation Star Dot Collarbone

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The fog came in off the harbour every evening that October, and by six the lodgers had given up on the view and gathered in the front parlour of Gull Rest instead. My aunt charged them a shilling extra for the fire. I was the one who carried the coal scuttle up and down the stairs, and I was the one who noticed Mr Ansell never came down at all.

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He was a surveyor of some sort, with a leather case that smelled of chalk, and he stayed in the room above the scullery for eleven weeks. On my nights off he let me up to sit on the sill, where the skylight gave onto a square of black sky whenever the fog thinned. He taught me to find the three stars that made a kite shape, then the thread of dots running out from them like a line cast over the roofs. He drew it for me on the back of a rent receipt with a pencil he kept sharpened with a penknife, pressing so lightly the dots looked as if they might blow away.

I asked him whose line it was. He said the fishermen had named it for one of their own who never came home, and that the bent arc at the end was the net he never got to haul. My aunt said that was nonsense, that stars had no names but the ones the chapel gave them. Mr Ansell laughed and said chapels had never been out on the water at three in the morning.

He left on a Tuesday before the fog lifted, and the room above the scullery was swept by Thursday. The receipt was still in my apron pocket. I held it up to the skylight that night, and the dots were so faint I could hardly find them, but the sky was clear for once, and there they were, the same small points, waiting for someone to join them up.