Black fine-line triskelion of three interlocking spirals on the centre of a person's chest, with a small pentagram tattoo on the upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Triskelion tattoo on the chest

Fine line · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A close crop of a chest showing a black triskelion made of three interlocking spirals, centred on the sternum area. A small black ring with a pentagram inside sits on the upper arm at the right edge of the frame. The linework is clean and even, the image is dark with a muted, moody tone, and the subject is cropped below the neck.

Fine line Chest Upper arm Spiral Pentagram Circle

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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

By October the big top has more patches than canvas, and you are the one stitching them. You sit on an upturned crate under the rigging lamp while the lion keeper smokes outside the wagons and the generator coughs somewhere past the horse lines. Nobody has bought a ticket in Doncaster for three weeks. Mr Dunn talks now about selling the sail to a scrapyard man from Leeds, who wants the canvas by the weight.

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The centre pole sail is the only piece he refuses to sell. Old Anselm Dunn painted three gold spirals on it in 1931, arms sweeping inward and outward at once, so that the audience's eyes would always be pulled toward the middle of the ring. Mr Dunn says the crowds stopped turning round years ago. He says it as though the spirals are a debt he has finally decided not to pay.

So you work at night. You unpick the seams that hold the spiral panel to the rest of the sail, one stitch at a time, the ripper catching on the old thread and the thread giving way with a small sound like a breath let out. The panel comes free in long curls, each arm unrolling like a fern in damp weather. Under the lamp the gold has gone the colour of weak tea, but the lines still run true from the outer edge into the heart and back out again. You cannot find where any of them begins.

By dawn you have folded the panel into a square the size of a hymn book and buttoned it inside your coat. The ring is empty and the sawdust has gone grey with frost. You walk past the wagons and out through the gap in the hedge toward the bus stop on the Selby road. Behind you the big top stands with its centre pole bare, and in your pocket the three arms are still faintly warm from the lamp.