Small black outline tattoo of a Stormtrooper helmet on the inner forearm near the wrist.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Stormtrooper helmet on wrist

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small tattoo of a Stormtrooper helmet, drawn as a bold black outline with the visor and mouth grille left as solid black shapes. The ink is black with no shading or colour, and the design sits centrally on the skin against a dark background. The skin around it is smooth and evenly lit, so the linework is clearly visible.

Forearm Stormtrooper Helmet Star wars Outline

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, the stove only warms the one side of you. Your great-uncle Alwyn was forty that winter, and the snow came early and stayed till Candlemas, so the ewes were all in the barn and nobody went past the lower gate. Then one morning the dog wouldn't come off the frozen ditch, and when Alwyn went down to fetch him he found a helmet lying in the reeds, white as a boiled egg, with two black slits for eyes and a grille across the mouth like a little iron sieve.

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He carried it up under his coat and set it on the kitchen table, and I told him it was bad luck to bring a dead man's hat into a house. He said it wasn't a hat, it was a face, and that it had been out there so long the frost had got into its seams. He tried to prise the visor up with a butter knife and it wouldn't give. All that day it sat by the teapot, watching us with its blank black eyes, and I'll admit I didn't sleep well.

The thaw came on the third day. Water ran off the roof like someone was pouring it from a jug, and in the afternoon Alwyn heard a sound from the lower field, a scrape and a click, as if something were walking through the mud looking for its other boot. He took the lantern and went out. When he came back he didn't speak, only put the helmet on the shelf above the range, facing the door, and said, 'It's waiting for the rest of him.'

We never found the rest of him. But every thaw since, the ditch frogs go quiet at dusk and you can hear the gate latch lifting, and in the morning there's a single line of boot prints going up the path to the house and back again. Your grandfather swore it was the postman. Now, eat your bread and don't go looking in ditches.