A tiny solid black heart tattoo sits just below the collarbone on the upper chest, shown in soft natural light against pale skin.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small black heart on the upper chest

Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A very small, solid black heart sits on the skin near the collarbone, with the rest of the frame showing soft, pale skin and shoulder. The heart has clean, simple edges and is filled with dark ink, with no shading or added detail visible. The image is lit gently and the background is a plain, light grey, which keeps the focus on the small mark.

Chest Heart

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit yourselves down, and mind the peat smoke in your eyes, because this is the story of Ishbel Gunn's tin and the black stone she kept in it. The tin sat on her windowsill above the sink, a biscuit tin with the paint worn off its lid, and nobody on Eilean Mòr was permitted to open it but Ishbel herself.

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The stone was no bigger than a thumbnail. Her man, Donald, had found it on the shingle at Traigh Bheag the spring before he took the creel boat out to the skerries. The tide had worn a slate chip into the shape of a heart, a clean wee thing with two soft lobes and a point, dark all the way through. He pressed it into her palm on the quay and told her it was the only heart the sea had ever made on purpose, and then he sailed, because the lobsters did not wait for sentiment.

The weather turned on the third day. The ferry stopped, the boats stayed on their moorings, and for four weeks Ishbel walked the shore at first light, counting gulls and reading the wrack for any sign of a red hull. She found plenty of driftwood, a child's wellington, and once a dead seal with its eyes gone. What she never found was Donald. The men of the island said the skerries had swallowed him, and Ishbel said nothing back, only took the tin down each night and held the stone against her breastbone until it was warm.

On the twenty-ninth morning a boat came round the point with its engine coughing, and Donald stood in the stern with one arm in a sling and a grin like a split herring. Ishbel did not run. She walked down to the water, took the stone from her pocket, and set it in his good hand. He turned it over twice, then laughed and closed her fingers back around it. Keep it, he said. It has already done its job. She put it back in the tin, and it is there still, on the sill above the sink, and the lid has never once been opened since.