Fine line black tattoo of a small star and arrow on the upper chest near the collarbone, with a small key tattoo on a finger.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small star and arrow tattoo on the chest

Fine line · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A woman with a dark bob wears a white top, and a small fine line tattoo sits on her upper chest near the collarbone. The tattoo shows a tiny star at the end of crossing lines, drawn in thin black ink with no shading. A small key-shaped tattoo is also visible on one finger of the hand holding the top, and the photograph has a soft, neutral background.

Fine line Chest Hand Star Arrow Key Line drawing Collarbone

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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 arrow came through the post office at Harrowgate Bridge in a biscuit tin, wrapped in a tea towel, with a note that said only: keep it dry. I was the night clerk at the crossing then, the one who stamped papers under a lamp that buzzed like a trapped wasp, and nobody sent me parcels. I opened the tin on my desk at two in the morning because the queue had finally gone quiet and the lorries had stopped idling in the rain.

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Inside lay a brass arrow no longer than my finger, its shaft bent where someone had leaned on it, and beside it a folded chart of the river. Someone had pencilled a small star in the margin on the far bank, the kind a child draws when she is not yet allowed to name a place. The chart marked a footbridge the council swore had been pulled down after the flood of the sixties.

I should have logged it. Instead I took my torch and walked down to the water with the chart in one pocket and the arrow in the other. The bank was soft and smelled of wet nettles. Where the pencil star pointed, the old pilings still stood out of the current like broken teeth, and between them someone had strung a rope with a bell tied at its middle. I rang it once. Across the water a light came on in a window that had been dark for decades, and a hand waved, slow and certain, as if it had been waiting for someone to ask the way.

In the morning I wrote one crossing in the log, no vehicles, no names, and left the tin on the shelf for whoever came on after me.