Fine line black tattoo of an outlined hand holding a small flower sprig on the side of the ribs.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Outlined hand holding a flower sprig on ribs

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A single outlined hand, palm turned inward, rises from the side of the ribs and holds a small sprig of flowers near the top of the design. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, so the design relies on the outline alone. The tattoo is in black ink against pale skin, set against a yellow brick wall in bright daylight.

Fine line Botanical Ribs Hand Flower Sprig Outline Line drawing

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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 band at the Palais has been playing the same waltz since eight, and the floor smells of Brylcreem and wet wool. You stand by the pillar with a sprig of lily of the valley your sister pinned to your collar, and you watch the boy from the chemical works cross the room with his hands in his pockets, as if he has forgotten what they are for.

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He stops in front of you and does not ask. He takes your right hand, turns it palm inward the way Mrs Achterberg taught the girls at the Institute, and lays the flowers across your knuckles so the stems point at the ceiling. "Those are for you," he says, "not for the dance." You tell him the card in your bag says otherwise, and he laughs, a short surprised sound, and says the card is in the cloakroom with his coat.

The band slides into something slower. You keep your hand where he placed it, open, the sprig trembling between your fingers as you turn. Somewhere behind you someone is calling for a lift home, a door bangs, and rain starts on the high windows. You count the bars the way your father counted shifts, four to a line, and by the fourth turn you have stopped minding that the little bells are bruising.

When the lights come up he is still holding your hand. You do not give it back, and neither does he, and you walk out into the wet car park like that, the lily of the valley crushed green in your palm, and you do not let go until the bus pulls in.