Small fine line geometric fox head tattoo in black ink on the inner wrist of a hand held palm up over a wooden floor.

Geometric fox on the wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small fox head is drawn in thin black outline, built from angular triangular facets with a few internal lines. The linework is clean and even, with no shading, and the tattoo is the only colour-free element against the pale skin and warm wooden floor. The hand is raised, palm towards the camera, with the tattoo placed low on the inner wrist.

Fine line Geometric Forearm Fox Triangle

Find an artist for this

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 fox came down the slipway every night after the boats were in, and every night Mrs Tallis shouted at it from the window of the fish loft. Nobody in Porthmere could agree what colour it was under the harbour lamps. Orla Pennick, who cut lantern housings from copper sheet in the shed behind the chandlers, said it was the colour of wet slate with a lick of rust, and that she had never once seen a curve on it.

Keep reading

She noticed that first. Round things kept catching the light, but the fox's back ran in straight lines that met at points, and when it turned its head its ears sat flat as the edges of a folded envelope. She began sketching it on the backs of old invoices, pencilling triangles over triangles until the animal stood up out of the paper like a lantern frame. Her brother Dan laughed and said foxes weren't built from offcuts, but she kept going, cutting the outline from a spare sheet of copper with her tin snips and filing each corner until it was sharp enough to draw blood from a careless thumb.

In the third week of the herring run the fox didn't come. Mrs Tallis said it had gone up to the quarry, or been taken by a lorry out of Bodmin. Orla left the shed door open anyway and set the copper cut-out on the step with a saucer of scraps beside it. In the morning the scraps were gone and the cut-out lay face down on the slipway, with a single russet hair caught on one point.

She never learned where it went. What she kept was the hair, folded inside the ledger, and the habit of checking every edge she made for something sharp enough to follow.