Close view of a small black fine line tattoo of a curved arc with dots on the side of a ribcage, with a white towel wrapped around the body.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fine line arc with dots on the ribs

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A small black tattoo of a thin, curved line with three or four tiny dots along its lower section sits on the side of the ribcage. The linework is fine and even, with no shading, and the ink is a deep black against the skin. The skin is warm toned and the white towel wrapped below the tattoo fills the lower part of the frame.

Fine line Ribs Arc Curved line Dot

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 lamp at Skerra Point had been dark for eleven nights when my father finally let me climb the tower alone. He had a cold that settled in his chest like wet sand, and the mainland doctor had sent word that the boat would not come again before the spring gales. So I took the key from the nail by the door and went up the iron stairs counting every step aloud, the way he had taught me.

Keep reading

The lens was caked with salt. I rubbed it with a rag dipped in vinegar until the glass showed the sea in clean halves, then found the spirit lamp and the box of wicks. My father had left his notebook open on the sill. Beside each night's entry he had drawn the same thing in pencil: a curved stroke for the sweep of the beam, and beneath it three small dots, one for each buoy he could still make out from the window when the weather lifted.

I lit the wick at dusk and watched the beam go round. Out past the reef, a lantern answered it, then another, three of them bobbing in a loose line like beads on a cord. I counted them twice to be sure. Then I took the pencil and drew the arc again beneath his, pressing hard, and added a dot of my own for a fourth light I had almost talked myself into seeing.

By morning the fog had come in thick and the lamp was still turning. My father climbed up at dawn on his own two feet, coughing, and found the notebook open at a fresh page. He read it through, touched the new dot with one thick finger, and said nothing at all, which from him was a great deal.