Cursive script word on a wrist
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A single cursive word is written in thin black ink across the inner wrist, running diagonally from upper left to lower right. The linework is even and smooth, with a few looped strokes and no shading. The ink is dark and sharp against the pale skin, and the plain grey background keeps the focus on the tattoo.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Sit down, the kettle's only just on, and mind the nets. You'll want to know what became of the brass scales at Porthgwidden, the ones that hung over the fish market on the north quay. Morwenna Keel kept them for thirty-one years, and in all that time she never let a skipper talk her into a heavier stone than the one she'd marked. Men tried. Big Ansel Dray once sewed a lead weight into the lining of his coat.
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She didn't shout. She lifted the pan, looked at him over her spectacles, and said the one word, slow, the way you'd tell a gull to move off the slab. Enough. It became the town's joke, then its custom. Children playing at market would hold up a hand and say it. Widows said it to the tide when the boats were late.
The winter the Caroline went down off the Stacks, Morwenna stopped saying it. She weighed the catch for the grieving families without a word, and the scales swung true and sad, and nobody had the heart to ask her why. Come spring, she took a pen and wrote the word on the back of her ledger in her best hand, looping the letters the way her mother had taught her, and pinned the page above the scales.
Then she sent the whole quay home with their fish at cost, and that was the only time anyone heard her say it kindly. Enough, she said, and meant that the sea had taken its share of them. Take your herring and go home.
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