Script word on an inner wrist
Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A black and white photograph of an open palm and forearm, with a small script word tattooed on the forearm close to the wrist. The lettering is bold, with rounded, looping strokes in dark ink. The hand is turned palm up against a plain grey background, and the soft lighting shows the skin texture and palm creases clearly.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Sit down, sit down, and mind the bean rows, they've had enough trouble this year. You want the story of the wall garden? Then hold out your hand, palm up, the way the old gardeners did when they were paid in seed rather than coin. Good. Now, there's nothing in it, and that's the point. Nothing in your hand, nothing in mine, and yet the garden grew.
Keep reading
Forty years back there was a lad called Tobias Wren who came to Hollin Lane with a spade too big for him and a word inked on his wrist so he could read it whenever his hand went to the soil. The old woman who ran the glasshouse had told him that anything can grow if you keep asking it the same question. She never said what the question was, and he never asked. He just planted, and watered, and each morning he turned his wrist up to the light and read the word, and it told him whether to dig deeper or leave the frost alone.
Then the glasshouse burned in the winter of the great fog, and the old woman went to sleep under the apple tree and did not wake. Tobias found the seed tin empty, the tin she'd kept under her cot. Only one seed was left, rolled into a corner, black and dry as a button. He put it in his open palm and sat there in the cold, and he understood at last that she had never given him anything. She had only wanted him to hold out his hand.
So he did. He planted the last seed in the bare ground by the wall, and it came up sour and small, and he tended it anyway, and the whole lane has been eating from it ever since. Go on, close your hand now. That's the whole of it.
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