Black and grey geometric tattoo of a rabbit head built from angular facets, with a diamond shape across the forehead, on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Geometric rabbit head on a forearm

Geometric · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows a rabbit or hare head made from angular, faceted lines, with long upright ears and a diamond shape across the upper head. The linework is dark and fairly bold, with light grey shading inside the diamond and along some facets. The design is centred on a forearm against a dark background, and the ink is almost entirely black and grey.

Geometric Forearm Rabbit Hare Diamond Animal Geometric shape

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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

Hold that lantern steady, the wire under the sawdust has been waiting since the spring of 1974 to take somebody's ankle. There, that's better. Now you want the rabbit. Everybody who sits on these benches wants the rabbit, though the Carrow Brothers Travelling Show went bust before the rabbit ever earned its keep.

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Old Teodor Vance kept it in a hatbox lined with blue silk, a thing cut from grey glass and sharp as a wish. Its ears stood up like a pair of folded knives, and in the middle of its brow sat a diamond the size of a pigeon's egg. Every night the crowd thinned a little more. Teodor would lift the lid, the rabbit would tilt its head, the lamps would catch its facets and throw little stars across the canvas, and the farmers from Dunmere would shuffle out muttering that they could have bought a cow for the price of the ticket.

The night the council came with the papers, Teodor took the diamond out with a pair of pliers and a cup of brandy for his nerves. He did not sell it. He set it back in the rabbit's forehead, pressed the lid shut, and walked the rabbit to the edge of the field where the tent poles were rotting. Then he opened the lid and let it go. It hopped once, twice, and vanished into the hedgerow, leaving a trail of light in the frost that the children swore they could follow for a mile.

So when you ask me whether it's a true story, I tell you what I tell the men with the clipboards: ask the hedgerow. Ask why the fields out past Dunmere are brighter in February than any field has a right to be. Mind your coat on the way out. The step's still loose.