Black and white photo of a fine line script tattoo running vertically along the side of a person's ribs.

Fine script along the ribs

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph taken from behind of a person's side, showing a thin script lettering tattoo running vertically along the ribcage. The linework is fine and crisp, rendered in solid black ink with no shading or colour. The subject is cropped at the shoulders and hips on a sandy beach setting, with the tattoo as the central focus.

Fine line Lettering Ribs Script Lettering Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Margaret kept the envelope in the biscuit tin for eleven years before she thought to open it, and by then the paper had gone soft as cloth at the folds. The letter was written in pencil, the lines running across the sheet, but down the right-hand margin, where Harold had run out of room, he had crammed one last sentence standing on its end, a word stacked above the next, so she had to turn the page like a steering wheel to read it.

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Harold Penhallow had been a signalman on the branch line out of Bodmin, and he wrote the way he signalled, short and without ornament. He had asked her to marry him on a Tuesday at the level crossing, and she had said she would think about it, which in the Penhallow house counted as yes. Then the war sent him to Malta, and the letters came every fortnight with a little sketch on the back of a gull or a chimney pot, as if he had been trying to send her the view instead of the news.

The last letter came in March. He had seen the sea from a hill outside Valletta and thought of her hair blowing across the sand at Polzeath, and he was coming home on the Thursday train. He did not come on the Thursday, or the Thursday after. Margaret stood on the platform with a blue ribbon in her hair until the stationmaster gently told her to go home.

She read the vertical line once more, then folded the letter along its soft creases and put it back in the tin. That evening she walked down to the crossing, lit the lamp in the signal hut the way Harold had always done before the late train, and left it burning until morning, though no train came and nobody asked her why.