Solid black geometric tattoo of a blocky tower with grid windows and speed lines on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Geometric tower tattoo on forearm

Geometric · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A solid black tattoo of a tall, angular tower shape with horizontal bands and a stepped base, accompanied by several square blocks filled with grid lines. Thin tapering streaks run alongside the shapes, giving a sense of motion. The ink is crisp and uniform on pale skin, photographed against a wooden floor.

Geometric Blackwork Forearm Tower Window Grid Line Building

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

Brother Osric had counted the tower's windows every morning for eleven years, and on the morning the wind came off the fell sideways he counted nine instead of ten. The tenth had gone in the night, its shutter hanging by one hinge against the grey stone. He climbed the ladder with a pot of lamp black and a brush cut from the old horse's tail, because the abbot insisted the black must match the first building, nothing bought in the town.

Keep reading

On the stair he met Brother Tobiah coming down with the ledger tucked under his arm. "The lower cells are cracked at the foot," Tobiah said. "The stepped base has sunk a hand's width since Lent. Every bell we hang rings a semitone flat, and the novices complain of it at compline." Osric said the crack was only damp, and that a coat of black would keep the rain out of it. Tobiah looked at him over his spectacles the way he looked at unbalanced accounts, then went on down.

Osric painted the horizontal bands in a single sweep, the way his master had taught him, and when he reached the square blocks at the base he found a loose stone with a folded paper pushed behind it. The hand was spiky and slanting, like rain driven sideways. It read: The tower is not falling. It leans to the valley to hear the bells better. Leave the streaks where they are. He read it twice, then pressed the stone back into its hollow.

He did not mend the crack. He painted the last shutter, hung it true on its hinge, and set the brush to dry in the sun. That evening the wind found the grid of the lower cells and ran through them like a comb through wet wool, and at compline the bells rang true for the first time in a month.