Small solid black anchor tattoo on an ankle, shown in a black and white close-up photograph.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small anchor tattoo on an ankle

Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

A small anchor with a rounded ring at the top sits on the side of an ankle, with the heel visible below. The anchor is drawn in solid black ink with simple, bold lines and no shading. The photograph is black and white and cropped closely on the ankle against a patterned bed sheet.

Ankle Anchor

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The ferry from Mull was forty minutes late, so the cake went up the slipway in a laundry basket, balanced on Dilys's hip while Tom held an umbrella over the icing. Nobody had warned the minister about the wind. He stood at the top of the chapel steps with his notes gripped damp in one fist, glaring at the sea as though it had personally let him down.

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Ruth had stitched a small navy anchor into the hem of her dress the night before, because her father had once told her a bride needed something to hold on to when the tide turned. He had said this at the kitchen table in Oban, then gone out on the Mary Jane and come back two days later with a bag of mackerel and no explanation. She had never asked him what he meant. She was beginning to suspect she knew.

When the gusts dropped for a moment, the minister found his place and began. Ruth did not look at any notes, because she had none. She looked at Tom, wet to the knees from the harbour wall and grinning like a fool, and felt the hem settle against her ankle as the wind went quiet around them.

Out past the breakwater the ferry finally rounded the point, sounding its horn like a latecomer who wanted it entered in the register. Dilys lifted the cake higher, Tom laughed, and the minister, who had nothing left to read, simply said the words again.