Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Single vertical line on a forearm
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A black and white photograph of a person's forearm and hand, with the sleeve of a dark garment visible above. A single thin vertical black line sits on the inner forearm, close to the wrist. The line is crisp and even, set against smooth skin and a dark background, with soft light emphasising the arm.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The stew had caught again by the time Mags Tulloch came down the companionway, and she said nothing about it, because the cook was twenty-two and crying quietly into the flour bin. She took the wooden spoon from him, scraped the blackened layer off the bottom of the pot, and set the pot on the cold plate by the door where the draught from the hatch would bring it back to temper. Outside, the Forth was grey and flat, the Cromarty boat already a smudge on the horizon.
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She had kept the galley log for nineteen years, a fat black ledger with a brass clasp, and every night she marked the day with a single stroke in the margin. Rations, weather, who had been sick, who had not come back from shore leave. Simple tallies. The boy had asked her once why she didn't write the days out in full, and she had told him a line was enough for a day if you already knew what the day had been.
That evening she sat with the ledger open and her sleeve pushed back, the pen steady in her fist, and drew the stroke on the page. Then she looked at her own wrist, where the old count had been pricked in ink years ago at a booth in Leith, one fine line for every crossing she had made as cook, and the newest one had not yet been made. She set down the pen. Tomorrow, she thought, she would ask the boy to fetch the needle.
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