Black geometric tattoo of overlapping concentric circles and rings on the upper arm near the elbow, in a geometric style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Concentric circle design on upper arm

Geometric · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A photograph of a black ink tattoo made up of overlapping circles, rings and small dots on the outer upper arm close to the elbow. The linework is clean and even, with inner rings and segmented arcs filling the larger circles and a few smaller circles trailing off below. The image is in black and grey on a dark sleeve against pale skin, with a person's hand visible at the right edge and no face shown.

Geometric Upper arm Circle Concentric circle Ring Linework Dot

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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 big top at Greaves Brothers' Circus had been sold twice before the rain got into the poles, so by the last autumn the only thing still turning with any conviction was the Wheel of Fortune on the midway. You painted its rim every Monday because Mr Greaves said a wheel that looked tired would make the punters tired of luck. You did it with a sable brush and a ruler cut from a broken tent peg, laying the rings down one inside another until the paint sat as level as water in a saucer.

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The ring-script was your own invention, the joke of a bored summer in Skegness. Each circle held a word, each arc a letter, each dot a full stop, and only you and Ilse, the aerialist, could read it. She had asked you to put her name in it so that someone might find it later, and you had said nobody would ever turn the wheel that far, and she had said that was exactly the point of a secret.

The last Monday, she came with a pot of gold size and sat on an upturned crate while you worked. You told her one word took an hour in that script and she laughed and said they would have plenty of hours now that nothing was going anywhere. You did it anyway, circle by circle, while the generator coughed behind the caravans and the Ferris wheel ticked over for nobody.

When the scrap man came with his crane, the wheel rose slowly, every painted ring catching the low sun. You stood beneath it with the brush still in your hand and watched it swing once on the hook, the way a lock turns when the right number finally comes round. Somewhere on the lower rim her name was going round with it, and then the chain carried it out over the lane and out of sight.