Black geometric tattoo of a symbol of interlocking triangle and angled bars inside a ring, on the left side of a person's ribs.

Bold circle and triangle symbol on ribs

Geometric · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A solid black ring encloses a geometric symbol made of a triangle and two angled bars that overlap. The linework is thick and even with no shading, and the tattoo is in black ink only. It sits on the side of the ribs against bare skin, with a dark top and a bracelet visible in the frame.

Geometric Ribs Circle Triangle Symbol Abstract

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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

The tide has been wrong since Tuesday, and you know it because the gulls have stopped squabbling on the rail. At dusk you climb the iron stairs of Carrick Nab with the paraffin can in one hand and the logbook pinned under your elbow. A hundred and twelve steps, the same number your father counted every evening for thirty years, and you count them under your breath so the wind cannot take the tally.

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The lamp room is a ring of brass and salt-crusted glass. The three lenses were bolted at angles by engineers in Edinburgh who drew them on squared paper, so the beams throw a triangle of white across the water. Where the frames cross, two bars of shadow lie over the light like the spokes of a wheel. Mrs Holloway from the harbour office once asked why the shadows were needed. You told her the sea trusts only what it can see from three sides, and she wrote it down as if it were a joke.

Fog comes in at midnight, thick as wet wool, and the Marigold is still out past the bar with the Pargeter boys aboard. The clockwork sticks at half past one. You wind it by hand, your knuckles split on the crank, and you polish the lenses with a chamois until the glass squeaks. You keep the triangle turning, sweeping the same ring of white over the water so that somewhere out there a boat can find the mouth of the harbour and the black circle of safe water inside it.

At four the Marigold's horn answers, flat and cracked, and then her lantern swims into the ring. You stand at the rail until she is through the gap and tied up under the wall. Back in the lamp room you write in the logbook: Light kept. Three boats in. One crack in the third lens, unreported. Then you close the book and start down the hundred and twelve steps, counting them the other way.