Close-up of a gold and silver metallic chevron temporary tattoo on a person's forearm, with bare legs and sunlit skin in the background.

Gold and silver chevron temporary tattoo on a forearm

Geometric · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A close-up of a metallic temporary tattoo of stacked chevron arrows, outlined in gold foil with a silver chevron at its centre. The linework is clean and geometric, with a textured foil finish, and the design sits on the forearm near the wrist. The warm, sunlit background is softly out of focus, and the composition centres the design on the skin.

Geometric Forearm Chevron Arrow Metallic Gold

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody in Porthkennack paid Sol Tremayne properly for gilding, but they paid him in pasties and the odd bottle of cider, and that kept him in the workshop above the chandler's through the wet months. Mostly it was chevrons. Three stacked arrows for the bows of the Saturday dinghies, pointing at the water so the crews knew which way was forward. He laid gold leaf around each arrow so it caught the low sun, then silver for the heart of the middle one, because silver, he said, was the honest metal. It tarnished if you let it, and you could always tell a neglected boat by the grey at its centre.

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Nell came in the August she turned fifteen, sent by a mother who had run out of excuses for her. She was quick with a sable brush and slow to sit still. Sol taught her to breathe out as the gold settled, since a breath in the wrong place creased it. For a month she practised on offcuts of tin. Then his hands began shaking in the mornings, and when the committee asked for a bow done by Friday, he gave her the brush and sat on an upturned crate with his tea.

Her first chevron went on crooked. She wanted to scrape it off and start again, and he told her no, a boat that has been sailed a season is never straight either. She laid the silver heart anyway, breathing out, and when the varnish cured the three arrows threw the harbour light back across the quay like a signal. The Saturday race was won by a battered hull with a girl's crooked gold at its bow, and nobody on the committee noticed.

Sol kept the scraper on its hook by the door, unused. Some afternoons he still walked down to the slipway to check the arrows, and they always pointed out to sea, which was where he had told her forward was.