Hand-drawn red geometric sigil of an inverted triangle within a circle, with handwritten lyrics above and below, shown as a tattoo design on paper with no body placement visible.

Red inverted triangle sigil with lyric

Geometric · Mixed · Flash

A hand-drawn design on plain paper shows a red sigil made of interlocking triangles, with a small inner triangle and a circle enclosing the main shape. Two lines of handwritten black text sit above and below the symbol. The linework is clean and uniform, with no shading, and the composition is centred with the text framing the motif.

Geometric Triangle Circle Lyric Handwriting

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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

The name badges are still in the tin by the hall door, the sticky kind Mrs Okafor used to hand out on sports day, and you press yours to your coat before anyone can look at you properly. Thirty-eight years since Hollin Lane. The gym smells of the same floor polish, and across it Dean Marsh is laughing with his whole chest, the way he did when he was the one holding the rope.

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Someone says you look well. You say the same back, which is a lie that costs nothing. Dean finds you by the squash table with two plastic cups of wine. "Still running?" he asks, and you remember that you used to take the long way home past the allotments every day that term, because the others ran in a pack behind the bike sheds and you learned to stay ahead of the sound of them.

He doesn't bite now. He tells you about his boys, the mortgage, a boat he's buying with his brother-in-law. He is smaller than you remember, the way grown men always are under strip lights. On the back of the raffle sheet someone has doodled a triangle, point down, with a circle drawn round it, the same shape you used to scratch into the margins of your maths book to keep the bad ones out. Nobody else seems to notice it.

Dean reaches for his cup and his hand shakes, just a little, enough to slop the wine over his thumb. You had thought for years that the teeth were the thing that mattered. You leave by the side door while the DJ is playing something from 1998, and the frost is clean on the railings, and you walk home the long way, past the allotments, without once looking back to see what follows.