Black and grey fine line anchor tattoos on the wrists of two people, placed side by side on wooden floorboards.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Matching anchor tattoos on two wrists

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two wrists are shown close together, each with a small anchor tattoo drawn in thin black outline. The anchors are nearly identical in size and angle, and the photograph is black and white. A grey fabric cuff is visible on one arm, and the background is a wooden floor.

Fine line Forearm Anchor Outline Wrist

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The late apples were coming down in the wind when Mab Tolley found the anchor in the creek mud below Hollin Orchard. It was no bigger than a loaf, black with silt, its arms worn soft as bread. Her cousin Joss stood on the bank with the cart and said it was a child's toy off some pleasure barge, since the Tolleys had never owned a boat in their lives, and so they argued about it all the way up the lane.

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The orchard sloped towards the water, and every autumn the old Bramley at the bottom dropped its fruit into the reeds before anyone could pick it. Their grandmother had tied a rope from its lowest limb to a bluestone so the tree would not walk off in a flood, a thing she swore it had tried to do. Mab set the little anchor on the kitchen table beside the cider jug and rubbed the mud off with her thumb until a hooked fluke came up gleaming.

That night the wind turned and the creek rose over the lower rows. In the morning the rope was slack and the Bramley stood in water to its knees, but it had not moved an inch. Joss went down with a pitchfork and found the bluestone dragged to the gate, and Mab followed him with the anchor under her arm, because she had decided it belonged to whoever held the tree.

They hung it from the branch above the cart, where the rope would never rot against the bark. Every harvest after, one of them fastened the rope and the other checked the knot, and nobody ever said which was the anchor and which was the tree. The last thing they cut into the iron, beside the shank, was two small hooks side by side, scored deep enough that the weather would never wear them away without someone noticing and cutting them again.