Black line tattoo of geometric figures and dotted circles with a sun motif, in dotwork and geometric style, on a person's upper arm and shoulder.

Geometric figures and dotwork on upper arm

Dotwork · Shoulder · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows a stylised figure with a rounded face and a hooded head, beside a horned creature with round eyes and a small animal head at the lower left. Dotted concentric rings, a dotted sun-like burst and a dotted circle with a vertical element fill the background and lower area. The design is made of thin black linework with stippled dot shading, in black ink only, wrapping across the upper arm and shoulder.

Dotwork Geometric Shoulder Upper arm Figure Face Animal head Sun Circle Dot Ray

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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

Sit up, love, the drip won't change itself. Right, this is the one about the woman who kept the sun in a bucket. Nobody on this ward has heard it, because I only tell it at night when the corridor lights go amber and the machines start talking to each other. She lived beyond the last bus stop, where the road gives up and turns into a sheep track, and she wore her hood up so nobody could read her face. Her companion was Morrow, a horned creature with round eyes, who could not be trusted near bread.

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One February the sun fell down the well at the bottom of the lane. The village went grey as porridge. Morrow was the only one small enough to slip through the gap in the stones, so Halla lowered him on a rope with a ring of dots painted round the bucket for luck. Down in the dark a fox was waiting, the small sharp sort with a face like a folded letter, and it had the sun clamped in its jaws, hot enough to curl its whiskers.

'What do you want for it?' Morrow asked, and the fox said it wanted a story nobody had finished. Halla leaned over the lip of the well and began, slowly, the way you do when you have all night. She told it about a kettle that wanted to be a lighthouse, and a miller who kept his debts in a biscuit tin. Somewhere around the lighthouse the fox began to yawn, and by the time the miller paid up, it had dropped the sun into the bucket and curled up on the stones to dream.

They hauled it up hand over hand. Halla carried the sun home under her hood, and the lane came back to colour one wall at a time. Some mornings, if you stand where the path turns to sheep track, you can still see the rays it threw on the cottage door, a scatter of small dots that never quite fade.