Semicolon tattoo on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A raised hand with dark nail polish is shown above a grey knitted jumper sleeve against a pale wall. A small, solid black semicolon sits on the inner wrist, drawn with simple, clean linework and no shading. The composition is tightly framed on the hand and wrist, with the tattoo placed centrally and kept in soft focus against the light background.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Semicolon Punctuation Wrist Hand

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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 lead type came up warm from the furnace, and Enid Parr pushed her spectacles up with the back of an inky thumb before she read the line again. The flood report had to go to press by six, and the Hollis Street works had only a handful of full stops left in the case. Enid had been hoarding them since the winter strike, the way other women hoarded good candles. She held the composing stick up to the lamp and looked at the copy: forty-one families, one church hall, and the river still rising somewhere past the weir.

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'Full stops everywhere,' said Dennis, the apprentice, who was nineteen and wanted to be finished. 'Sentences like shut doors.' Enid shook her head and reached into the small walnut drawer where the semicolons lived, a sort nobody ordered any more. 'A full stop tells the reader the thing is over. I've set enough of those this year.'

She rewrote the paragraph by hand, turning every second full stop into a semicolon, so that each clause leaned on the next and nothing fell off the end of the column. The line about the hall did not stop at the hall. It carried on to the names of the people who had been sheltered there, then to the bread brought in on a handcart at midnight, then to the old man who had refused to leave his allotment until someone threatened to carry him.

When the last sheet came off the press at a quarter past five, Dennis found one semicolon left on the stone, bright and unused. He kept it in his waistcoat pocket for forty years. Whenever he reached a place where he might have stopped, he waited there a moment, and then he went on.