Blue fine line snowflake tattoo on the inner wrist and forearm of pale skin.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Blue snowflake tattoo on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A single snowflake with six branching arms is tattooed in blue ink on the inner wrist and lower forearm. The linework is thin and even, with small side branches along each arm. The design is set centrally against pale skin, with a dark background at the edges of the frame.

Fine line Forearm Snowflake

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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 yourselves down and stop shoving, the lot of you. My grandfather's grandfather worked the face at Hollin Pit the winter the snow came early, and he swore to me that the first flake he ever saw down there was lying on the cage floor, six arms out, not melting. The air underground was too cold for melting. He picked it up on the end of his finger and it looked blue in the lamplight, blue as a vein in a wrist, though the lamp itself burned yellow.

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He couldn't bear to throw it back up the shaft, so he kept it in a tin of salt on the shelf by the lamp room. Every morning before his shift he tipped the lid and checked, and every morning it was still there, sharp as a folded letter. The overman laughed at him. Then the roof came down in the north drift, and Tom Erskine and four others were shut in with one lamp between them and no sense of which way was up.

Tom had the tin in his coat. He took out the flake and laid it on the wet stone, and the arms of it turned slowly, all six, until they pointed one way. That was the draught, a thin breath of cold air coming through a gap no man had mapped, and it was the only thing in that black place that knew where the sky was. They crawled after it on their bellies for three hours and came out blinking into the frost at the top of the pit.

That is why the old men cut a six-armed star into the lintel above the pithead baths, and why nobody on this row has ever thrown out a bit of salt. If you ask me nicely, I'll take you up to the old shaft and show you where the cold still comes through. Now. Who is going to fetch the kettle?