Fine line black tattoo on the inner wrist reading miles to go, with a dashed route and a small paper plane.

Miles to go wrist tattoo with dashed plane

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A hand is shown palm up, with a black tattoo on the inner wrist. The tattoo reads miles to go in handwritten lettering, with a dashed line curving up from the text to a small triangular paper plane shape. The ink is thin and even against the skin, and a metal pendant on a long chain hangs above the wrist against a wooden background.

Fine line Lettering Hand Dashed line Paper plane Triangle

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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

The rain has been coming sideways across the flower stalls since before six, and you have given up on the canopy. You sit on an upturned crate under the dripping corner of the tarpaulin, folding the last of the coach timetables from the wrong side of the river into planes, because the old man who sold you the stack said paper with routes printed on it flies truer. The card pinned to your stall says the same thing it has said all week in your own careless handwriting.

Keep reading

A girl with a carrier bag of soaking onions stops to read it. She asks what it means, and you tell her it's a shop, which is only half a lie. Your grandmother used to say those three words every time she left a room, as if every doorway was a stop on a long train with no timetable worth trusting. The girl nods as though this makes sense and wanders off towards the fishmonger's awning, where the gulls have given up on the fish and are sheltering with everyone else.

You fold one more plane, slower than the rest, and send it out over the gutters. It catches the wind, dips past the bread stall, and lands face down beside a stranger's boot. He picks it up, turns it over, and reads the dashed route someone once drew across the back of the timetable. Then he looks up at you across the wet stalls, and you realise he is waiting for the next leg.

You lift your hand, palm open, the way you'd signal a bus driver to hold on a moment. He lifts his in return. Behind him the rain thins just enough to show the far end of the market, where the lamps are coming on one by one, each a stop you have not yet been given.