Small black fine line anchor tattoo on the inside of an ankle, beside a black peep-toe high heel shoe.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small anchor tattoo on an ankle

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

A small black anchor sits on the ankle of a person wearing a black peep-toe high heel, with a brick wall behind. The anchor is drawn in thin, even black linework with no visible shading. The ink is black only, and the shot is taken at a slight angle with the tattoo kept small in the frame.

Fine line Ankle Anchor High heel

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Every twelve years the old pupils of Saltcombe Grammar came back to the hall to eat pilchards on sticks and pretend they had never been frightened of Mr Ferris. Nell Harrow arrived last, having walked up from the bus stop in the wrong shoes for cobbles, and she stood at the door until somebody noticed her.

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It was Tom Cadwallader who noticed, because he had sat behind her in Form Four and she had once hidden his cap in the sea cadets' locker. He said she looked the same. She said he had got fat. That was how they knew each other still. They talked about the bell nobody had rung since the storm of 1987, about the harbour wall where they had dared each other to jump, and about the anchor the cadets had dragged up from the mud one summer and bolted to the wall outside the bike shed, where it still hung.

Nell put her hand flat on the cold brick and said the anchor had been hers. Tom laughed. She did not. Her grandmother used to say that a boat with its anchor down was never truly lost, only waiting, and that a person could carry the same small iron hold about them, one you could not see from the road. Tom looked at the mortar where the anchor had been, now only a rust-coloured ghost, and then back at her.

Nobody in Saltcombe could say which of them went home first that night. The caretaker found the hall lights off, the chairs stacked, and one pilchard on a stick left on the windowsill, its paper flag lifting in the sea wind. Two sets of footprints ran down the wet harbour steps, one neat and one quite a lot larger, and the tide took them both by morning.