Small colour tattoo of a soft-serve ice cream cone with pink and yellow sprinkles, in fine black outline, on the inner forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Soft-serve ice cream cone on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A small tattoo of a soft-serve ice cream cone with a white swirled top decorated with pink and yellow sprinkles and a peach-coloured waffle cone with crosshatched lines. The design is drawn with a thin black outline and simple flat fills. The tattoo sits centrally on a pale forearm against a plain light background.

Fine line Forearm Ice cream Sprinkles

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

Right, sit down, you're letting the cold in. No, the van's not open till Easter, that's the thing about Pellow Bay in March. Nobody comes down the prom but gulls and my Uncle Dessy's ghost. Pass me that flask.

Keep reading

Dessy had a Bedford with a cracked chime that played the first bar of a hymn nobody could name, and he sold soft-serve from a machine he swore was older than the pier. He swirled it so high it leaned, like a wave about to think better of it. The sprinkles lived in a biscuit tin, pink and yellow, and he picked them out with a teaspoon so every cone got exactly seven. Seven, he said, was the number a child could count to before the tears started.

The winter the sea took the lower steps of the promenade, a girl came up the slipway every evening with a ten-pence piece clenched in her fist and no coat. She never ordered. She just watched the peach waffle cones stack in their rack, crosshatched like a fishing net, and Dessy would hand her one with the sprinkles laid out in a little yellow arrow pointing at the sea. Nobody ever asked her where she lived. That was the rule on the prom.

Then one evening she didn't come, so Dessy shut the hatch early and drove up to the top road where the bungalows are. He left the chime off. When he got back there was the ten-pence piece on the counter, wrapped in a paper napkin with a single pink sprinkle stuck to it. Keep it, he always said after that, and he never did say what he meant, only that some debts pay out in cones.