Black ink drawing of a snarling tiger with bold striped shading, crouched on rocks, shown as a tattoo design on plain paper.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Snarling tiger on rocks design

Japanese · Black and grey · Flash

A tiger with its mouth open in a snarl stands on a rock formation, with its body twisting and its tail curling down to the lower left. The linework is bold and black, with heavy stripes and soft grey shading across the fur and rocks. The drawing is in black and grey on a pale background and fills most of the frame.

Japanese Tiger Rock Snarl Stripe Tail

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 thaw had not reached the top field by the second week of February, and the ewes were bunched in the lee of the outcrop like men waiting for a bus. My father always called that heap of grey stone the Lodge, because the wind went round it and never through. I went up with a bucket of mangold tops and a torch I didn't need yet, because the light was going by four and Mrs Dacre's collie had come home alone with its ears flat.

Keep reading

The tiger was on the highest slab. I took it for a tarpaulin snagged on the rock until the torch found its eyes, two dull coins of light, and then a mouth opening wider than any mouth had a right to in Lincolnshire. Its stripes were the shadows the frost had left in the cracks of the stone. Its tail hung down the rock in a loose coil, and there were fresh prints in the snow below it, each as wide as my hand, running back down toward the lambing shed where we kept the oats.

I did what my father taught me and stood still, and I talked to it the way you talk to a bull in a gate. It did not come down. Instead it turned its head toward the scrub at the bottom of the field, where a fox crouched with a hen in its jaws, and the snarl went on and on until the fox dropped the hen and ran. When I looked up again the slab was bare, only lichen and wind, and the tracks ran out beside the rock as if nothing had walked there at all.

I carried the bucket home. The collie was asleep by the range. In the morning I found the hen alive in the straw with one feather torn and nothing else wrong, and on the frost of the gatepost, faint as a pencil line, a stripe that had not been there the night before.