Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Crown and FOB triangle on forearm
Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A solid black tattoo shows a crown with small dots above a triangle outlined with rough, brushed edges. The letters FOB sit inside the triangle, with a few drips extending from its base. The design is centred on a smooth skin area, photographed against white bedding with soft, even lighting.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The three-cornered stone at Hollin Cross had been scrubbed every spring since before the war, and Ruth Pelling still did it with a bucket and a stiff brush, though her hands were bad by then. The letters F, O and B were cut deep into the face, and above them a little iron crown had been bolted to the top edge, rusted to the colour of old pennies. Nobody in Ashby Moor could say who had put it there.
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The summer the council wanted the road widened, a lorry came up from the county yard with a man called Dobbs at the wheel and a barrel of tar lashed in the back. Ruth stood in the lane with her brush and told him the stone had three brothers in it. He laughed and said stones had no brothers. She told him anyway. Fenwick, Oswald and Bram Hale had shared one field until they could not agree on a single gate, so they took a triangle of hard ground between them, cut their initials into the rock and swore that whoever carried the stone up the hill would keep the crown.
Nobody carried it. Bram, the youngest, tried, and his back gave way in the middle of the slope, and his brothers came down to help him. They lifted the stone between the three of them and set it on the crossroads, and that was the end of the quarrel. Ruth said the tar drips on the base were from that day, when Oswald had spilled the pitch he was using to seal the field gate and had not minded at all.
Dobbs looked at the drips for a long while. Then he turned the lorry round in the lane, and the road was never widened past the cross. The stone stands there still, crown on top, the black runs down its foot like a row of small candles, and Ruth's brush has left a pale ring in the moss where she kneels every April.
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