Small outlined ice cream cone tattoo with a pale scoop and yellow waffle cone on the inner forearm.

Ice cream cone on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A small tattoo of an ice cream cone sits on the inner forearm of a person wearing a striped top and jeans, with the head cropped out of frame. The scoop is pale grey-white with a dark outline and a soft drip at its base, while the cone is filled in yellow with a fine crosshatched waffle pattern. The design is centred on a plain dark background, which makes the simple outlines easy to see.

Fine line Forearm Ice cream

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The van came up Kettle Lane every Thursday at four, when the heat had gone out of the hedges and the bracken along the wood's edge had turned the colour of old pennies. You heard it before you saw it, a tinny two-note tune that bounced off the beech trunks and came back half a bar late, as if the forest wanted a turn too.

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I had sixpence in my sock and a plan. Mr Pardoe, who drove it, had a face like a folded map and never once asked why a girl of nine was always alone at the stile. I pointed at the cone with the pale scoop and the soft drip down one side, the yellow waffle that crackled when you bit it. He looked past me at the trees. 'Going in there, are you?' I said I was only looking for my dog.

He took my sixpence and pressed a second cone into my hand. 'That one's on the house,' he said. 'Mind the roots past the holly. Keep to the path and you'll come out where you went in.' I walked into the wood eating, sticky to the elbow, and the path bent and bent until the van's tune went quiet behind me. When I came out at the stile again the sun was low and the van was gone, and my dog was sitting on the wall with his tail going, as if he had been waiting all afternoon.

I never did learn where the path went. Every Thursday since, I leave a sixpence on the stile, and every Thursday the tune comes up the lane half a bar late, and I go to the trees with my hands already sticky.