Small fine line black tattoo of a triangle with a circle and line, and round glasses with a bolt, on the inner forearm near the wrist.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Triangle, circle and glasses on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small black tattoo sits on the inner forearm near the wrist, showing a triangle with a circle and a vertical line above a pair of round glasses with a lightning bolt. The linework is thin and solid with no shading, and the ink is black against pale skin. The arm is raised with the hand in a loose fist against a plain white background, with a grey sleeve at the upper edge of the frame.

Fine line Forearm Triangle Circle Line Glasses Lightning bolt

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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 old man at Sixteen Mile well would not sell me water for money, only for a story, so I gave him the one about my brother's lorry going through the cattle grid backwards. He did not laugh. He took three things from the pocket of his apron and laid them on the bonnet of my pickup in the heat: a triangle cut from tin, a brass ring no wider than a bangle, and a length of wire bent perfectly straight.

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'Those are for the road,' he said. 'Put the line through the ring and the ring onto the point, and you will be able to go where the tarmac stops.' I asked him what he wanted for them. He shrugged, reached inside his shirt and unfolded a pair of round wire spectacles, one lens cracked in a jag like forked light, and set them on his nose before he looked at me over the top. 'Nothing you have yet,' he said.

I drove on at dusk with the tin triangle rattling on the dashboard. Past the last fence the sand turned pale as paper and the road simply ended in a white flat of salt, and I stopped because I had no choice. Then I threaded the wire through the brass, slid the brass onto the tin point, and looked through the cracked lens. The salt was not empty. A dirt track ran straight across it, lined with posts, toward a town I had never heard of.

I followed it until morning. When I got there, the old man was sitting on a bench outside the diner, sipping tea, and he lifted his cup as though he had been expecting me for years. I still have the spectacles. I do not wear them. I keep them on the sill, and the cracked lens catches the first light every morning like a small, stubborn bolt.