Solid black silhouette stencil of a spiky-haired clawed figure with three long blades on each forearm, shown on a white background.

Clawed figure silhouette stencil

Black and grey · Flash

A bold solid black silhouette of a standing figure with spiky hair and three long blade-like claws extending from each hand. The shapes are cut with rough, jagged edges and no internal shading, giving a stencil-like look on a plain white background. The figure fills most of the tall, centred composition.

Figure Claw Silhouette Stencil

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

Sit closer, the lamp will gutter before the good part, so pull your coat round and keep your back to the wind. Out past the salt pan, where the road forgets its own name, my grandfather's grandfather saw a man walking with his hands held up in front of him, as though he were carrying two invisible bowls of soup. Each hand had three blades slid out from the knuckles, long and pale as stripped willow, and his hair stood off his skull in black, broken spikes like the crest of a startled crow.

Keep reading

The Ferris family had a wagon stuck to its axles in a drift of sand that had no business being there. The storm came down off the ridge the way they do, all at once, and by dusk they were tangled in a fence wire that had blown across the track. Old Mabel Ferris was calling the children to lie flat in the wagon bed when the man stepped out of the dust. He did not speak. He simply knelt, drew those three-bladed hands through the wire like a knife through butter, and set the little ones free one by one. Then he stood, looked at the coffee pot they offered him, and shook his head.

"The road owes me nothing," he said, "and I owe it the same." He walked off north into the storm, and the family did not sleep. At first light Mabel went out to fetch the water barrel and found the sand beside it cut in three long furrows, neat as a ploughman's, leading away from the wagon and vanishing into the scrub. Scratched into the iron rim of the barrel, just where a child might run a thumb along it, were three fine lines, and none of them had been there the night before.