Blue and dark-outlined snowflake tattoos of varied sizes and designs across the side of a torso, above a black and white patterned waistband.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Snowflake tattoos on the side of the torso

Fine line · Ribs · Colour · Photo

Several snowflake designs are tattooed across the flank and side of the torso, ranging from a large ornate swirling snowflake at the top to smaller star-shaped ones below. The linework is fine and mostly outlined, with blue fill and some darker detailing in the central motifs. The skin is shown in close, slightly angled view, with the top of a patterned garment visible at the bottom edge.

Fine line Geometric Ribs Snowflake Winter Star Ornament

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mrs Okonedo's shop on Teasel Lane had one window, and in January it held nothing but a paraffin heater and a tin of humbugs gone grey with damp. The lamplighter, Albert Fenn, came by at four each afternoon with his pole and his long brass wick-key, and each afternoon he stopped to knock the ice from her sill. That was how the whole thing started, if you want a start. A man who stops to knock ice off a stranger's sill has already made a promise he hasn't noticed.

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The snow that year came early and stayed. It lay on the rooftops of Market Dunning like cloth folded by someone careful, and the children made stars of it on the green by lying down and sweeping their arms. Albert said the stars only lasted until somebody stepped on them, which was the trouble with most good things. Mrs Okonedo said she had never seen a snowflake she could keep, not one that held its shape past the doorstep, and Albert laughed and said that was why they had to be drawn.

So he drew them. Every evening he sat under the lamp at the corner and copied the flakes off the sleeves of his coat onto the back of his wage slips, six points, then twelve, then the fierce little ones with barbs like a hawk's hackles. By February he had a drawer of them. On the last night of the frost he carried the drawer down Teasel Lane and tacked every sheet to her shutters, and when she came out in her slippers the whole street was ticking with paper stars that the wind kept turning, blue ink catching the lamplight, not one of them melting.