Black line drawing of a circular geometric diagram with arcs, dots and a small filled circle, above the words hello, sweetie in a thin script, shown as a tattoo design.

Circular line diagram with "hello, sweetie."

Geometric · Black and grey · Flash

A black line drawing of a circle made of concentric rings, containing arcs, small circles, dots, and straight lines that cross the interior. A filled black dot sits on the right edge of the ring, and a thin, hand-lettered phrase reading hello, sweetie appears beneath the circle. The linework is thin and even on a plain white background, with no shading.

Geometric Fine line Circle Lettering Line drawing

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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 disc came up in the trawl on a Tuesday, wedged in a knot of rope and weed, and Dad swore the sea was having a joke at our expense. It was the size of a dinner plate, a ring within a ring, with blackened brass rods running across its face like spokes on a wheel that had forgotten where it was headed. A single black stud sat on the outer rim at the three o'clock position. The harbourmaster said it was a tide gauge from the wreck of the Margaret Lowe. I didn't believe him, mostly because it hummed when I held it.

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I carried it up the cliff path to the old coastguard hut, where Nell Ashby kept the radio and a kettle that never quite boiled. She turned it over, tilted her head at the words stamped beneath the rim, and laughed until she had to sit down. "That isn't a tide gauge, Ros. That's somebody who knows me." She wanted to know who would write that on a piece of brass and drop it off the Gannet Rock. I had no answer, so I moved the black stud a notch anticlockwise, the way the lettering seemed to ask.

The hum climbed. Fog came through the window smelling of salt and oranges, and the radio crackled into a voice that was neither Nell's nor mine. "Don't go looking for the wreck, love. It's in the wrong century." Then the set went quiet, and the disc was only cold brass again, the black stud now sitting at the top of the ring, pointing towards the hut.

I still keep it on the windowsill. Each morning I check the tide tables against its spokes, waiting for the stud to creep round to the place where someone on the far side of the water will say my name.