Close-up of a bare back with gold metallic temporary tattoos of a triangle, chevron arrows and a feather, plus a silver geometric armband on the upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Gold metallic temporary tattoos on a bare back

Geometric · Back · Colour · Photo

A bare upper back and shoulder with a gold metallic triangle divided into smaller triangles, a vertical column of gold chevron arrows, and a large gold feather with fine hatched detail. A silver geometric armband with a diamond-and-line pattern sits on the upper arm, and a braided navy cord and chain run diagonally across the shoulder. The designs appear to be temporary metallic tattoos rather than permanent ink, and the image is lit softly with a warm tone.

Geometric Back Shoulder Upper arm Triangle Feather Chevron Arrow Chain Armband Geometric shape Gold

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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 down, sit down, and mind the stove, it spits like a cross cat. You'll want the feather story, I know it, everybody on this reach wants the feather. Well then. In the hard winter, when the Sallow froze to the piles and the ice-breakers had gone home to their wives, Nan Pellow was working the Marigold up from Ely with a hold full of pressed tin and not a soul to talk to but the rats.

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Nan kept a ledger, and in its margins she drew little triangles for every lock she passed through. One night a stranger came down the towpath with a leather case of flash-gold, those transfers that flake off on your fingers if you breathe on them wrong. He offered her a feather and a column of arrowheads in exchange for a bunk until Denver Sluice. She laughed at him, then took the case anyway, because the gold caught the lamp like nothing else on that cold water and she had never once in her life been given a present.

The gold was gone from her shoulder inside a fortnight, rubbed off on the tiller and the sleeves of her coat. The lock-keeper's wife asked her at Denver whose bird it was, and Nan said it was nobody's, it had only ever been passing through. But the arrows stayed on the ledger page, a little worn, pointing back up the river toward Ely. That is the only honest direction a barge has, my loves. Forward is a rumour. Back is where the wake is.