Fine line black constellation tattoo of small dots joined by thin lines on the side of the ribs, with grey fabric around the torso.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Constellation tattoo on the ribs

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A small constellation of black dots joined by thin lines sits on the side of a torso, angled diagonally across the skin. The linework is delicate and even, with the dots varying slightly in size. The skin is pale and the background is grey crumpled fabric, leaving the tattoo as the clear focus.

Fine line Ribs Constellation Star Dot Line

Find an artist for this

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 frost had taken the beans again, so Mirela went down the garden at dusk with a ball of tarred twine and a fistful of iron pins. Her grandmother had always said the sky was a seed bed left to go over, and the stars that dropped in the night had to be pinned back into the ground before the cold got into them.

Keep reading

She counted seven over the bean poles, bright as salt, and pinned them one after another: first the low one by the water butt, then the pair above the shed roof, then the long run that swung down and round like the handle of a watering can. Where the twine pulled taut she tied a knot, and where the knot sat the frost would not settle. By midnight the whole bed lay dark and dry, and she sat on an upturned bucket with her hands in her apron, listening to the rooks quarrel over who had the warmer chimney.

The miller's boy came over the wall in March, having heard the tale from his aunt, and tugged at the twine to see whether the stars were real. They slid loose in a shower and went out over the river one by one. Mirela did not shout. She knew they would find their own way home, as they always had, and that the sky would be short of its seven until somebody was foolish enough to try again.

In the morning she walked the rows with her boots wet to the ankle. Where the last pin had gone into the clay, a single bean flower had opened, pale as a struck match, and the frost had gone round it like a wide, careful hand.