Black compass rose tattoo with N, E, S and W lettering on the upper back near the shoulder, shown from behind.

Compass rose tattoo on upper back

Traditional · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A compass rose with long pointed rays, a central circle and the letters N, E, S and W sits on the upper back, close to the shoulder blade and neck. The linework is dark and bold, with grey shading on the rays giving the design some depth. The image is a close, slightly soft shot of a person with reddish hair pinned up, wearing a white top, with a desk and candle softly blurred in the background.

Traditional Back Compass Compass rose Cardinal points Nautical

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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 needle on the dashboard has been lying since the last petrol station at Calder Wells, so you have stopped trusting it. Your father's brass compass rattles in the cup holder with the loose change and the spent matchbooks, and at every junction you pick it up and turn it in your palm as though the desert might have shifted the roads overnight. It always agrees with you about north. That is the trouble with it. It never disagrees, only waits.

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The rose on the lid has eight points, the long ones sharpened to needles, and the circle at its heart worn smooth by his thumb. He used to say the four letters were the only honest words on any map, because they did not promise where you would end up, only which way you were facing. You had laughed at him for that. The road ahead runs straight for forty miles between dry washes, and the heat ripples over the tarmac so that the far hills seem to float on water they will never give you.

Near dusk the road gives out at a salt flat with a fence post leaning in the wind. You get out and stand there with the compass open on your palm. The needle swings, shudders, and settles on a point to the north-east that is nothing but white crust and a single crow. You close the lid. Behind you the sun is sinking, and your shadow stretches out across the crust, pointing towards the same spot the needle has chosen.

You stand a while longer, letting the cold come up through your boots. Then you walk back to the car with the brass warm in your fist, and for the first time since Calder Wells you do not check which way is forward. You turn the key and head for the lights of the town, letting the dark do the navigating.