Black outlined snowflake tattoo on the inner wrist, with blue, teal and purple watercolour wash filling the centre.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Watercolour snowflake on the inner wrist

Geometric · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A symmetrical snowflake sits on the inner wrist of a light-skinned arm, with a dark blue fabric sleeve at the top of the frame. The six-armed design is drawn in thin black linework with smaller branches along each arm. Soft blue, teal and purple wash spreads through the centre and lower arms, with a small purple patch near the right edge, and the background is plain skin.

Geometric Forearm Snowflake

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The ice had got into the rigging again before the Morag Rose cleared the harbour wall, and you spent the first hour of the ebb knocking it off the stays with a mallet your uncle Dessie swore was older than the boat. Your fingers went white, then numb, then stopped reporting anything useful at all. Dessie just kept humming the same hymn under his breath and checking the chart by torchlight.

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By four the snow had thickened into the kind that doesn't fall so much as hang, and the Carrick Quay lights were gone. The diesel gauge sat near a quarter. Mags kept crackling on the radio that the Skerry bar was shifting, and you kept watching the flakes catch the deck lamp and turn over like small, careful things that knew exactly where they were going. Six arms each. No two alike. You wondered who had decided that was the rule, and whether they had ever been out in it.

Dessie said the old women on Inish Varra used to claim a snowflake is only a drop of sea lifted high enough to forget where it came from. You told him that was rubbish. He laughed, then went quiet, and a minute later Mags's voice came through clear saying the bar had cleared. You saw the green flash of the beacon through the white, steady and exactly where it ought to be.

You pulled the wet cuff down over your wrist, cold blue melting into the wool, and took the wheel from him. The boat swung for home with the snow settling on her decks, every flake still perfect in the lamplight.