Small black fine line cross tattoo on the side of a finger, with a blurred outdoor background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small cross tattoo on a finger

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a hand held up against a blurred outdoor background, showing a small black cross tattooed on the side of one finger. The cross has thin, slightly uneven black lines with no shading, and it sits centred on the finger. The soft focus and plain background keep attention on the single small mark.

Fine line Hand Cross

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 fuel light had been on since the last cattle grid, and the single road south of Tonopah ran so straight you could watch your own dust catch up with you. You pulled into the diner at Gold Reef because it was the only sign of life for forty miles, a tin-roofed box with a rusted pie case and a woman called Dora who wiped the counter without looking at you. She asked where you were heading. You said you didn't know yet, and she nodded as though that were the correct answer.

Keep reading

When she brought the coffee she took your hand across the Formica, turned it over and drew a small cross on the side of your finger with a biro she had pulled from her apron. The lines wobbled. Her hand shook a little, and she said it had been a long time since she'd done this, not since her father taught her to mark the strays so the drovers would know them from a distance. She told you the road was harder on people who didn't carry something that marked them as found. Then she took your money, which was less than the coffee cost, and went back to the pie case.

The ink wouldn't come off at the motel sink in Beatty. You scrubbed with the bar of soap until your knuckles ached, and the cross faded to a grey shadow, then to nothing you could see under the strip light, and still you could feel the edges of it when you pressed your thumb there.

Now you drive with that finger resting on the wheel. At every cattle grid the tyres drum and the sun catches the small dark mark, and you find yourself counting the miles between them, the way you once counted the seconds between lightning and thunder.