Black fine line and dotwork tattoo of a cloud with hanging diamond, star and circle shapes on the inner upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fine line cloud with dangling drops on upper arm

Fine line · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A small cloud outline sits on the skin with raindrop-like strands hanging beneath it, each ending in a diamond, star, or small circle. The cloud's outline is a thin, precise black line, and its interior is filled with stippled dotwork shading along the edges. The design is set against plain, pale skin with a soft, neutral background.

Fine line Dotwork Upper arm Cloud Rain Diamond Star Circle

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Hold still, you, and let me finish, because the rain doesn't wait for nobody and neither does my tea. That summer of fifty-two the cloud over Sallow Fen hung there for six weeks like a dirty sheet on a line, and not a drop came out of it. Mrs Pargeter was sure the Almighty had forgotten us. Her husband Walter said the cloud was simply stuck on the church spire, which is what he said about everything he could not fix.

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So Walter took the ladder up to the chapel roof one Tuesday with a paper bag of brass washers and a tin of his late father's fishing lures, the little silver ones with the diamond spinners. He hung them off the cloud, one by one, on threads he'd knotted from his wife's good knitting wool. A star for the rain we had been promised, a ring for every penny the council owed us, and a diamond at the bottom of each, so the water would have something sharp to fall past.

Nothing happened for three days. Then on the Friday the strands began to tremble, the way a dog does before it's allowed out, and the first drop ran down a diamond and off the end onto Mrs Pargeter's washing, which was still pegged out and very much dry. She stood in her apron and laughed till she wept, and the whole village came out to stand in it.

That is the whole truth of the matter, and the proof is still up on the chapel roof, if you care to look. Walter's threads have rotted and gone, but the cloud is still there, waiting on the next dry summer for somebody to climb up with a sack of washers.