Black fine line tattoos of a small triangle and tiny lettering on a forearm, with a dark shaded shape on the upper arm, in black ink.

Fine line triangle and script on forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A woman sits against a wooden wall in a striped crop top and acid wash denim shorts, with her face cropped out at the lips. Her forearm shows a small outlined triangle and several lines of tiny lettering in fine black linework, and a dark shaded shape sits on the upper arm near the armpit. A small crescent moon appears at the bottom edge of the frame, and the ink is black throughout.

Fine line Forearm Upper arm Triangle Lettering Script Crescent moon

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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

You stop the van at the end of Calder Lane because the lamp above the bakery has blown again, and the baker is waiting under his half-down shutter with a parcel he has wrapped twice. He doesn't say what is inside. He only taps a small three-cornered mark he has pencilled on the paper and says, "Deliver it before the moon sets, and don't open it on the bridge."

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The city at three in the morning is a set of rules nobody else is following. Buses run empty past the shuttered arcades. A tram bell rings twice somewhere behind you over the river, and a gull that should be asleep lifts off a bin lid to watch the van pass. You keep the parcel on the passenger seat, its corners tucked under the seatbelt like a passenger who has paid. Every traffic light turns green as though it has been told you are coming.

On the bridge you pull in anyway. The parcel is light. Inside, folded in tissue, is a small book of fine handwritten lines, each one a list of addresses, and beneath them a crescent moon drawn in pencil and pressed hard enough to dent the page. The writing is so small you have to hold the book under the streetlamp. Most of the names belong to people who no longer live where the post goes. One of them is yours.

You drive the rest of the route with the window down. The river smells of cut grass and diesel. At the last address, a flat above a closed laundrette, a woman in a dressing gown takes the book without looking at it, then looks at you and says, "He always said you'd come the long way." You don't know who he is. The moon is already low behind the cranes, and you understand that you have been carrying the message all along.