Two hands with silver metallic geometric temporary tattoos of triangles, chevrons and the word LOVE on the hand and wrist, worn with silver rings.

Silver geometric hand tattoos with triangles

Geometric · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

Two hands are photographed palm side up on a light stone surface, each with silver metallic designs. The designs are built from solid and outlined triangles, a diamond, chevron bands, a zigzag border and the word LOVE in simple capitals, with the rings shown in the same frame. The shading is flat metallic foil with no colour ink, and the framing is close and evenly lit.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The foil came up the lane in a tin trunk on the carrier's cart the week the beeches turned gold, and my mother would not let anyone else lift the lid. Inside, each sheet lay between waxed paper, cut by a man in the market town into triangles, a diamond, a band of chevrons and a row of small teeth like a saw. We called it silver, though it was only tin and a good deal of hope, and it rubbed off on everything it touched.

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My job was the forest path. Every autumn the woodcutters' wives left their girls' names on the stiles and the charcoal burners wanted marks for their sacks, so I went up past the pits with a pot of size and a flat brush, pressing foil onto bark, gate and the grey stone at the quarry's lip. Mother had cut me a stamp of the stacked triangles, like a row of pine spires seen from above, and I pressed it onto every trunk I passed so the path would know I had been there.

The autumn Anne Dowd married the carter's son and moved to the coast, she asked me for something to take with her. I carried the word-plate up to the fork, the one Mother had made for weddings, and set it against the old oak. I pressed LOVE in plain capitals, then the zigzag border that always ran along the hem of a wedding dress, and I felt foolish doing it alone in the cold.

By the next morning the rain had taken the O and blurred the edges, but the triangles held, shining in the wet like coins the trees had decided to keep. Anne came back up the path the following spring with a child on her hip and stopped at the oak. She traced the letters with one finger, laughed, and said my mother's stamps always went a little crooked.

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