Black ink circular emblem tattoo with a central triangle, crescent and symbol motifs, in a geometric style on the forearm.

Circular geometric emblem on forearm

Geometric · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A bold black outline circle encloses a central radiating design with a triangle, concentric rings, a crescent moon and several smaller symbols set around the edge. The lines are solid and even, with small areas of fill, and the design is entirely black ink on pale skin. The emblem sits on the inner forearm, centred in the frame, with a patterned grey top visible beside it.

Geometric Forearm Circle Triangle Crescent moon Symbol Emblem

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lift in Harrow Court had stopped between the ninth and tenth floors again, and you were the only one left on the estate who knew how to coax it up. Mr Okafor from flat four had already rung twice. You wedged the access hatch open with a torch and a rolled-up copy of the maintenance log, and that was when you saw the circle, scratched into the steel of the shaft wall at eye height: a ring, a triangle with a dot at its heart, a crescent, rings inside rings, and little marks around the edge like a clock face that had forgotten its numbers.

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Nobody had drawn that in the log. Nobody had drawn it on any plan you had ever seen. You copied it onto the back of your hand with a biro, out of habit, the way your nan used to write down numbers she was afraid of forgetting. Then you went to work on the counterweight, and every time the cable hummed you looked at the little crescent and thought about the tenth floor, where a window was lit even though nobody had lived there since the council emptied the block.

At four in the morning the car came free with a jolt that rattled your teeth. The shaft light blinked on, and the scratches had gone dull and grey, as if they had been waiting for the machinery to stir. You pressed the button for the roof anyway, because that was where the rooks gathered before dawn, and you wanted to see whether the city looked the same from up there.

It did not. From the roof the estate was a ring of lit windows around a dark centre, and every one of them held a small bright mark in the glass, turning slowly, like the hands of a clock someone had set going on purpose. You wrote the time on your palm, beneath the circle, and went down to tell Mr Okafor the lift was fine.