Black and grey photo of a small fine line stag head tattoo on the upper back, just below the nape of the neck.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small stag head tattoo on upper back

Fine line · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A woman with her hair in a loose bun is photographed from behind, showing a tiny black stag head with antlers at the base of her neck. The linework is thin and fairly clean, with little or no shading. The image is monochrome, with a plain light background and her shoulder and a dark off-the-shoulder top filling the lower frame.

Fine line Back Stag Antler Deer Animal

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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

Sit nearer the stove and mind the cat, she's been at the mutton fat again. No, leave the lamp be. The old stag came down off the Carrick ridge the winter the Weir beck froze solid, and he came down because the hinds had all gone to the valley farms ahead of the snow, and he was too proud to follow them.

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He stood at the bottom gate every morning after that, his antlers thin and grey as bare hawthorn, breath smoking over the frost. Old Jack Hebden threw him turnips and told the boy Will to keep his distance, because a stag that hungry will put a man into the midden without thinking twice. Will kept his distance, but he kept looking, and by the second week he could tell the stag's moods from the set of his ears. Tired ears, a bad night. Ears up, the wind had shifted.

Then came the morning the drift buried the lower field to the top rail, and Will found a ewe's lamb stuck fast in it, bleating like a rusty hinge. He couldn't reach her. The stag could. He walked into the drift as if it were a stubble field in June, lifted the lamb out with his head, and carried her across the yard to the byre door, setting her down on the straw as gentle as a midwife. Then he turned and went back up the ridge, and nobody saw him again that winter.

In the spring Will walked the bottom gate and found a mark in the frost-cracked paint, a little neat stag's head pressed there by something that had stood a long while with its face against the wood. Jack said it was only rust. Will never told him he'd put his own hand over it, and found it fitted exactly.