Black fine line snowflake tattoo with pointed arms on the side of the body, near the ribs.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Black line snowflake on the side of the body

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A single black snowflake tattoo with six pointed arms, each branching into smaller spurs, sits on bare skin at the side of the torso. The linework is thin and even, and the design is solid black with no shading or colour. The tattoo is centred in the frame, with a dark knit fabric at the top edge and a blurred background on the left.

Fine line Geometric Ribs Snowflake Star Line art

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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

Mrs Pryce had promised the new lodger that the sea at Gullhaven never froze, and Nell had believed her until the morning the corners of Room Four's window were furred white. She stood on the cold lino in her socks, breath clouding, and watched the glass for a long minute before she understood that the pattern was a drawing. Someone had made it there in the night, one arm at a time, and had not left a single line wandering.

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Downstairs, the lodger was already at the breakfast table with a pencil, a ruler and a saucer of cold tea. His name was Mr Abernethy. He had come in October with one suitcase and a box of drawing pins, and he did not look up when she sat down. 'Six arms,' he said, as though continuing an argument, 'because water sets at the angle it likes, and it does not care what we want from it. Each spur branches the same way whichever arm you follow.'

She asked why he bothered, when the frost would be gone by eleven and the sun would wipe the glass clean as soon as it cleared the harbour wall. He tapped the ruler against the pencil. 'The sun is in no hurry. The lines are.' Every morning since October, he said, he had copied whatever the cold had written on his window before it melted, and he kept every page in a drawer, because a copy is only a second snowflake that has forgotten how it fell.

That afternoon Nell traced one into the back of her ledger, spur by spur, using the ruler he had lent her. By teatime the pattern had gone to a bead of water on the sill. She found she did not mind. The ledger was the only place it would stay, and it was enough that she had seen it whole.