Fine line dotwork constellation tattoo in black ink on the side of a ribcage, with a hand resting over the top edge.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Constellation tattoo on the ribs

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A small constellation made of fine dots joined by thin lines runs across the side of the ribcage, with a cluster of brighter points at the centre and right end. The tattoo is in dotwork and fine line style, rendered in single-tone black ink on pale skin. A hand rests at the top of the frame, and the soft focus keeps attention on the small, delicate design.

Fine line Dotwork 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

Stop looking at the lamps, Ilinca, and find the bent line instead. Three bright dots, then a fourth that steps off to the left as if it has changed its mind, then the long dip down to the cluster. Mihail said the stars were no use to anyone who could not join them up, and he said it while pulling his cap over his ears, as though the cold were an argument he intended to win.

Keep reading

The riverbed was dry that October and the stones rang under your boots, so you walked on the sand at the edges where the sound softened. Twice a torch swung across the wall above you and you pressed into the shadow of a broken culvert, counting the way you had counted the dots. Your papers were sewn into the lining of your coat by a woman in the last village who asked for nothing except that you write to her when you arrived. In your pocket was a folded sketch of the sky that Mihail had drawn on the back of a bus ticket, and you kept your thumb on it the whole way.

At the cluster he stopped. The dog at the sentry post had gone quiet, and the water sounded very far away. "This is my part," he said. "The last stretch is only dots. You can see it from here if you stop trying to see the lamps." You looked up. The bright points burned over the hill with nothing between them but black, and you understood that the line had always been yours to draw. He pressed a cold tin of sardines into your hand, the one thing he had promised to carry, and turned back towards the river.

There was one window lit on the far side of the hill. You kept your eyes on it and walked, joining each stone to the next, until the light was close enough to be ordinary.