Black and white photo of a small fine line tattoo of a vertical line with loops and a curl, placed centrally on the chest.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fine line vertical tattoo on the sternum

Fine line · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a person in an open checked flannel shirt, cropped below the hair and above the chest. A small, thin black tattoo runs vertically down the centre of the chest, made of a fine line with several looping curls and a small dot at the top. The ink is crisp and even, and the subject sits centrally in the frame against the open shirt.

Fine line Chest Line Loop Curl Abstract 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 lift had been broken since Michaelmas, so Nell Tarrant sent her messages down the stairwell on string. She tied them to the railing on the twelfth floor and let them drop past the graffiti and the cold radiators, eleven storeys to the bin yard, where the boy who fed the pigeons would pull them up and tie back whatever he had. Every knot meant something agreed between them, and nobody else in Calder House could read it.

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The first knot said the post had come. The second said the hot water was back. A tight loop was for frost and an open loop for rain, and the small curl at the foot meant come down. Nell's gran had taught her the system from a hospital bed, saying the old people of the estate had talked this way long before anyone had phones to be lonely with.

One February the line came up light, with nothing tied to it but a single loop and no answer. Nell waited a day, then two, then went down eleven flights with her coat open and her breath going up in front of her. The boy was sitting on an upturned crate with the line wound round his fist. He had tied one more knot on the end, a tiny dot, which meant he was still there.

Nell did not climb back up. She tied the end to the crate leg and sat beside him, and together they unpicked the whole tangled winter of messages, knot by knot, until the string lay across the concrete like a letter with nothing left to say. Then they wound it back up together, one loop at a time, and left it hanging from the twelfth floor for whoever came next.