Small fine line snowflake tattoo in white and pink ink on the ankle, with a soft blurred background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Snowflake tattoo on an ankle

Fine line · Ankle · Colour · Photo

A small snowflake with six branches and dotted tips sits on the side of a lower leg near the ankle. The lines are fine and delicate, drawn in white ink with pinkish-red tones around the edges, which may be skin redness from healing. The background is soft and out of focus, with the leg filling the centre of the frame.

Fine line Ankle 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

The first snow came sideways over Scalloway the week the Girl Eliza was due out, and nobody in the fleet would call it a good sign. My uncle Tam stood on the quay with his collar up and counted the boats the way he counted everything, twice and then again under his breath. Six hulls, six men, and one gap where the Ardent should have been tied up.

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Ailsa Reid had come down from the knitting mill at Hillswick with a paper bag of ginger biscuits for the crews. She was nineteen and had never been further than Aberdeen. While Tam went aboard to argue with the engine, she asked me whether it was true that no two flakes were ever alike. I said my father swore by it, that he'd caught one on his sleeve every winter of his life and never found a match. She laughed and said it was the nicest lie she'd heard all week.

We went out at slack water. The Ardent limped back on the Thursday with her wheelhouse iced white and her skipper alive, which was more than the district had dared hope. Ailsa was waiting on the slip with the biscuit bag half empty. She took my hand, turned it over and drew six points on the back of it with a biro, each one ending in a little dot where the ink had pooled.

She said that was so I'd remember which snow was mine. I told her I'd remember without the drawing, and she told me that was exactly the sort of thing a man says before he goes out again. The biro line faded in a fortnight. The snow kept coming all that winter, and I never once looked at it without thinking of her.