Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Unicorn with an ice cream cone horn

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single-line unicorn head faces left, with flowing mane lines trailing behind it. The horn is drawn as a waffle cone with a drip of ice cream running down it. The linework is thin and uniform in black ink on pale skin, with no shading, and the tattoo sits near the centre of the frame against a soft grey background.

Fine line Forearm Unicorn Ice cream Horn Mane Animal Line art

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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

Mr Pruitt wants the counter wiped before the four o'clock bus, and you are still picking pistachio shell out of the grooves when the bell over the door gives its thin little ring. Nobody comes into Harlow Gap's only soda fountain at that hour. The heat has flattened the town like a dropped plate. You look up expecting a farmer's boy with a nickel clenched in his fist, and instead there is a unicorn standing on the lino, head lowered politely, its horn shaped like a waffle cone with vanilla already sliding down the spiral.

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It does not ask for anything. It only waits, the way the Methodist choir waits for the organ to finish its wheezing. You take a cone from the stack, scoop the vanilla high, and set it on the counter. The unicorn lifts its head and eats with great care, one eye closed against the sun slanting through the blinds. Mr Pruitt comes through from the back, sees it, and says, "Put it on the slate," as if unicorns had been coming in for years and he had simply forgotten to mention it.

After that it comes every afternoon. The Wolcott girls swear they saw it wading through the cornfield, and the minister preaches about small miracles without quite naming the one in question. You start saving the last scoop of each day in a tin under the counter. Then one Thursday the bell rings and you find the tin already empty, the cone wrapper folded into a neat square on the step. At dusk you see it trotting out along the highway, its mane streaming behind it in long pencilled lines, and a pale drip of vanilla running down its horn in the last of the light.