Close photo of a fine line sun tattoo with a small dot and short rays on the side of a ribcage, shown in sepia tones.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fine line sun on the ribs

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A single-line sun tattoo sits on the side of the torso, with a circle, a curved arc across its upper edge, a small dot near the centre and short rays spreading around the lower half. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, and the ink reads as black on the skin. The photograph is sepia toned, with a white top and a thin strap crossing the lower frame and a hand at the bottom left.

Fine line Ribs Sun Ray Crescent Dot

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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 sun didn't clear the top of Hob Scar until the ninth of January that year, and my father took it personally. He stood in the yard each morning with his tea going cold, glaring at the grey ridge as if it owed him money, while the cows bawled for their hay in the dark. Mum had a tin sign nailed to the byre door, a sun with its rays hammered out from a bent spoon, and he'd tap it with one knuckle on the way past, like a man checking a barometer.

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On the third, a thin shadow slid across the sun's face, a crescent of nothing where the light should have been, and the dog wouldn't go out after that. Dad said it was the moon having a cheek. I didn't argue. I took a stick of chalk and the flask up the lane to the old gatepost, which had been bare since the hedge was grubbed out, and I drew the sun the way Gran used to draw it on my palm when I was small: a circle, a bite of curve across the top, rays falling away below, and a dot in the middle where she said the warm part lived.

Sleet came over in the night and took the chalk clean off. I was sure I'd lost it. But at half past eight the ridge went gold all at once, the light came down the lane and struck the gatepost square, and in the wet wood where the chalk had been there were rays pressed in, dark as pencil lead, as if the frost had been waiting to sketch it too.

Dad came up the lane in his shirtsleeves, stood under it, and didn't say a word. He just took his cap off and held it against his chest until the light moved on.