Small black and grey anchor tattoo with rope detail on the side of the ribs, worn by a person in a black bikini top.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small anchor tattoo on the ribs

Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A small anchor with a rope wrapped around its shank is tattooed on the side of the ribs. The anchor is outlined in dark ink with grey shading on the flukes and crossbar, and the rope is drawn in fine detail. The photograph is cropped to the torso, with a pink and black bracelet on the wrist of the hand resting on the hip.

Ribs Anchor Rope

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The last train from Maddock Quay has been cancelled since the gale took the bridge at Lowen, so you walk the length of the platform with your case knocking your shin, past the enamel sign that reads PENHALLOW HALT, and find the porter already on the bench with a coil of old hawser across his knees. He does not look up. He is working an eye into one end with a bone fid, feeding the strands over and under the way his father must have shown him.

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'Mind the edge,' he says, as though you had asked. 'Tide comes up under the sleepers at the cutting. They sank the anchor there in nineteen-twelve when the embankment first slid, and it's still holding, though nobody has seen the chain since.' You want to tell him about the seven o'clock ferry, about the coach the company promised, but the rope keeps turning in his hands and your sentences slow to match it.

'Hold the lay tight for me.' He passes you the working end. The timetable board clatters over, the home signal drops, and a single carriage lamp slides out of the fog without any engine behind it. The guard is an old woman in a navy coat. She reads your ticket against the rope in your fingers, then nods as if the two were printed by the same press. 'Window seat, love, if you want it. The sea's been very patient with us.'

As the carriage pulls out, you look back. The porter has laid the hawser along the platform in a neat, unbroken line, and somewhere under the water a fluke is biting into the clay, holding the little station exactly where it is while the rest of the coast slips past the glass.