Small solid black dragonfly tattoo on the inner wrist and forearm, shown against a pale background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small dragonfly silhouette on a wrist

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small, solid black dragonfly with outstretched wings sits on the inner wrist, with the hand visible at the top of the frame. The design is a simple silhouette with no interior shading or linework detail. It is in black ink only, set against pale, slightly warm skin and a plain yellowish backdrop.

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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

Shift up on the crate, the awning will keep the worst off you, and mind the puddle by the eel man's barrow, it has swallowed a boot already and the boot was my cousin's. Now listen. There was a woman called Maud Corrie who mended umbrellas on the Thursday stall at Sallow Market, and she had fingers quick as a wren's feet and no patience at all for customers who wanted their brollies back by Friday.

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One grey morning, with rain coming sideways off the slates, a dragonfly dropped out of the gutter and settled on the spokes of her open umbrella. Black as a burnt match, wings held flat like two pressed leaves. Maud did not shoo it. She said, "You've come to a poor place for dry work," and it stayed while she rebound a ribbed frame, tap by tap, all morning. Every time she turned the handle it lifted, circled her head twice, and came back to the same spoke.

The stallholders said she was feeding it, and she was not. Dragonflies come low, her mother told her, only when the air is heavy and about to break, and what they follow is not the weather but whoever can wait it out. By noon the market had gone quiet under the drumming, traders dragging tarpaulins over their tables, and Maud found she could not finish the last stretcher. She sat with the insect resting on her wrist, still as ink, until the sky split open over the car park.

When the storm passed the dragonfly was gone, and so was the umbrella she had been mending, though it was never seen at Sallow again. Put your coin on the crate, child. On wet mornings, if you look along the gutters, you will still see a black speck riding the spokes like a needle through cloth.

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