Close-up of a small black fine line cross tattoo on the middle finger of a hand holding a blue checked shirt cuff.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small cross tattoo on a finger

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A hand is held in a loose fist, showing a small, thin black cross tattooed on the side of the middle finger. The lines are crisp and simple, with a slightly softened edge typical of a healing or older fine line tattoo. The background is a plain pale wall and the blue and white checked shirt cuff, with a dark button, sits at the wrist.

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 fog came down off Scarrow Pass at four, the way it always did in November, and Nell Harrigan still had one waystone left to mark before the light went. Her father had cut the first one in the year the carters started losing mules in the gully. Each stone stood at a bend in the track, and each bore a small upright cross incised at the height of a man's chest, so that a drover caught in whiteout could feel his way from one to the next with his palm against the granite.

Keep reading

She worked the chisel with a rag wrapped round the handle to keep the cold out of her grip. Tom Oddie came up the track with the mule string just as the first flakes started to stick, shouting that the lower road was already shut. "Leave it," he said. "Nobody's crossing tonight." She didn't answer. She knew the count. Seven crosses were meant to stand between the hut and the quarry lip. Six were already cut, and a traveller who found only six would walk the wrong side of the ridge and end up where her brother had gone over ten winters back.

She finished the seventh stone by lantern light with the snow thickening around the cutting. Her hand shook on the last upstroke, and the line came out a little crooked, a finger's width off true. She ran her thumb along it and decided it would do. Tom watched from the saddle, lantern raised, and said nothing about the crooked arm.

Two days later a carter came through, half frozen, and swore he had felt his way from stone to stone the whole night. He never learned the name of the mason. Nell kept the chisel in her coat pocket after that, and every winter she checked the crosses with her fingertip, the way you check a letter you have already posted.