Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Semicolon tattoo on a forearm
Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A small solid black semicolon, made of a filled circle above and a filled comma-shaped tail, sits on the skin. The shapes are crisp and fully filled with black ink, with no shading or fine detail. The plain grey-toned skin and soft, even lighting keep the focus on the tattoo.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The printer in Stoke Ferrers kept one drawer of type he never let me touch, and the semicolons lived in it, a row of them in a tray of worn lead gone soft at the edges. My uncle said a semicolon was a full stop that had changed its mind. He said it over the cider press in September, when the Bramleys were coming down faster than we could gather them and the wasps had got drunk on the windfalls.
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That autumn I was nineteen and certain I knew what a sentence owed anybody. I set a notice for the parish fete on the old Albion press, the one with the cracked platen, and I put a semicolon in the middle of it without asking. Aunt Marion read the proof at the kitchen table with her glasses on the end of her nose and tapped the mark with a bitten fingernail. Too much hanging about, she said. Either stop or go on.
I went out to the orchard instead, where the grass was long and sticky under the trees. A ladder leaned against the oldest Russet with one rung missing. I climbed to the first fork, held a windfall in each hand, and listened to the press clattering in the barn, stopping and starting, stopping and starting. It sounded like someone deciding whether a thing was finished. I stayed up there until the light went orange, and when I climbed down I left the notice exactly as it was.
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