Small solid black butterfly tattoo on the inner wrist of a light-skinned arm, photographed close up.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small butterfly tattoo on a wrist

Other · Black and grey · Photo

A tiny solid black butterfly with simplified, silhouette-style wings sits on the inner wrist, centred in the frame. The ink is dark and uniform with no visible shading, and the image is entirely black and grey. The background is blurred, with a dark vignette border around the arm and the hand at the top of the frame.

Other Butterfly Insect

Find an artist for this

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 proving cabinet ticked its tired little tune while Dorota pressed the last tray of lemon shortbread into the rack, and beyond the shutter the high street was still the colour of wet slate. Her father had cut the stamp from a block of pear wood the winter before he stopped coming in early, a single butterfly with its wings held flat, the way he said a butterfly should look once it has decided to stay somewhere. She had used it every morning since, and the customers who came at six liked to say it was the only thing in the shop that never changed.

Keep reading

The bell over the door rang before the light did. A boy in a school coat stood there with a fifty pence piece folded small in his fist and asked whether a loaf of the brown bread could be had for the price of a bun. Dorota looked at the coin, then at the crumbs on the counter, then at the tray she had not yet offered anyone. 'Who sent you out this early?' she asked. 'Nobody. My nan's chest is bad and the kettle's empty.' He said it flatly, the way children tell the truth once they have practised it on the bus.

She wrapped the loaf in paper, slid two shortbreads into the bag, and pressed the stamp into the last dough ball in the bowl, so that a small dark print sat in the flour like something that had landed there by chance. 'Give her this,' she said. 'Tell her it's from the shop.' He looked at it for a long time. Then he tucked the bag under his arm and ran, and she watched him down the wet street until the shutter was fully up and the first van went past with its lights still on.

Back at the bench she left the mark in the flour rather than wiping it clean. The sky over the car park went from slate to milk, and she set the tray to prove, watching the little dark shape rise slowly with the dough, as her father had always said a good thing should.