Black script lettering reading 'my story isn't over yet' ends in a semicolon, running diagonally across a pale forearm.

Semicolon and quote lettering on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a diagonal line of black cursive script on pale skin, reading 'my story isn't over yet', with a semicolon at the end. The lettering has smooth, even strokes with varied thickness and a brush-like flow, and the ink is solid black with no shading. The tight crop keeps the forearm filling most of the frame, with a soft grey background at the top left and right.

Lettering Forearm Quote Semicolon Script Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down, the lot of you, the Ferris wheel will keep its own counsel for ten minutes. Mind the mud by your boots. It was mud just like this the autumn Tobias Fenn lost his nerve and his caravan in the same week, and he came to my fire with a ledger full of debts and a face like wet paper. He wanted his fortune told. I told him I only read the endings of things, and he said then read me mine.

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I took his hand and studied the lines I could see by the lamp, which were not many, because a man who has been frightened a long time keeps his palm shut. Then I saw a sentence written across the heel of it in pencil, the way a schoolboy carves his name into a desk. I read it out for him: my story isn't over yet. He laughed at me, a dry little bark, and then he turned the ledger over and showed me the back cover, where he'd drawn a semicolon in ink. A printer's mark, he said. It means the sentence isn't finished, only paused, and the person reading it is expected to carry on.

He stayed through the winter. He mended the swingboats, taught the dog to fetch the ticket money, and every morning he chalked that line on the board above the caravan door, the semicolon at the end curled like a small tail. The council took the field in spring and the rest of us drifted apart. Nobody saw him again until the next July, when a boy from the seaside pier brought me a postcard. On it, in pencil, were four words: Went on. Didn't stop. The semicolon had been pressed so hard it had torn the card.

Right, the wheel's free now. Pennies in the tray, and hold the bar tight on the way up. The stair is wet and so is everything else tonight, but look, we're all still going. Off you go. The wheel is still turning, and so am I.