Black fine line snowflake tattoo on the inner wrist of a raised hand, with French manicured nails and grass in the background.

Snowflake tattoo on an inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A hand is raised toward the top of the frame, showing the inner wrist and forearm. A black linework snowflake with eight symmetrical arms, small circles and curved petal-like strokes sits centrally on the wrist. The lines are thin and even, the ink is solid black, and the background is out of focus grass with fallen leaves.

Fine line Geometric Forearm Snowflake

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 ovens had been roaring since three, and by a quarter past four Tomasz had stopped asking whether the first batch would rise. Ada ran the flour sieve back and forth over the bench until a fine white layer settled in the grain of the wood, soft and silent as the first snow of the year. Beyond the shutter the street was still black, and the only light came from the bakery window and a single lamp at the bus stop.

Keep reading

Her mother had kept a battered pattern book for Christmas, full of eight-armed flakes drawn in pencil, each arm forking into smaller arms, with tiny rings at the tips like frost on a railing. Ada had never been able to draw one that didn't look like a wheel. She cut the stencil anyway from the back of a cereal box, tracing the curls with the tip of a paring knife, and pressed it onto the cooled shortbread one piece at a time. Tomasz said nobody would notice. She said her mother had noticed everything, including the things nobody asked her to notice.

At half six the first delivery van idled outside with its engine ticking, and the driver came in stamping his boots and asking for two loaves and a bag of rolls. He didn't look at the trays. He paid, said it was bitter out, and left the door swinging on its spring.

Ada stood by the window with a dusting of icing sugar on her sleeve. The glass had fogged from the heat behind her, and she reached up and drew one flake in the condensation with her finger, the way her mother used to do on the kitchen window before school. By the time the sun touched the rooftops across the road, the lines had already begun to run.