Black and grey photo of two small fine line snowflake tattoos on the inner wrist.

Two small snowflakes on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph shows two small snowflake tattoos side by side on the inner wrist and forearm, with the hand resting at the bottom of the frame. The snowflakes have thin, evenly weighted black linework with six arms and small branches, and they are roughly the same size. The image is black and white, with a plain light surface behind the arm and a soft, blurred background.

Fine line Forearm Snowflake Wrist

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

Walt Ebbing cut snowflakes out of the motel's old fax paper every December, though December in Baker was a furnace with the sun on it. He kept a pair of scissors in his shirt pocket and a stack of ledger sheets under the front desk. By the time I was fourteen the office window was crowded with them, six-armed and thin as lace, curling a little in the heat from an air conditioner that never quite kept up.

Keep reading

I asked him once why he bothered. He squinted out at the highway, where the tarmac shimmered like water and a trucker was limping a dead rig onto the shoulder. 'Because somebody driving through here has been staring at sand for four hours,' he said. 'They need to see something that isn't sand.'

The night the cold front came in, the wind swung round from the south and the temperature dropped fifteen degrees in an hour. I was sweeping the empty pool when the first fine grit of something pale started drifting under the sodium lights. It wasn't snow. It was salt blown off a dry lake far to the east, catching the light as it fell. Walt came out in his slippers and stood with his hands in his pockets, not saying anything for a long time.

In the morning he gave me two flakes from the last sheet, folded inside a sugar packet. 'Keep one for the glovebox,' he said. 'Keep the other for when you need it to be December.' Thirty years on, I still have them, the paper gone the colour of weak tea, and I still can't drive past a motel sign in August without checking its windows.