Close-up of a hand with white nail polish and silver rings, showing a small black fine line anchor tattoo on the inner wrist.

Small anchor tattoo on the wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small anchor is tattooed on the inner wrist, drawn in thin black linework with no shading. The hand is raised in front of a snowy pavement, and the photograph focuses on the tattoo at the lower right. The palette is limited to the black ink, the white nail polish and the silver rings.

Fine line Forearm Anchor

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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 rain had been coming in sideways off the harbour since Tuesday, and Mrs Pengelly still hadn't taken the sign down from the front step. You came down to breakfast late, as you always did, and found the dining room full of the smell of toast and wet wool. Three of the lodgers had already gone out to look at the lifeboat slipway, leaving the long table to a man reading a tide timetable with a pencil behind his ear.

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"Your room's been let," she said, not unkindly, setting a cup in front of you. "The Hallorans want it for the month. You can have the attic now, if you don't mind the stairs."

You did mind, but you said nothing. The attic had a round window that looked straight down on the harbour wall, and a shelf where a previous lodger had left a brass ship's bell with the clapper tied up in string. Someone had scratched a small anchor into the windowsill, the lines clumsy and deep, the way a child does it with a hairpin.

That evening you climbed up to find the window open and the sea air pushing the curtain flat. Below, the fishing boats were coming in one by one, lamps swinging, and you counted them the way you used to count the days until the summer season ended. Fourteen. Then fifteen, late, with no lamp at all, sliding round the wall in the dark with the tide under her.

Mrs Pengelly was at the bottom of the stairs when you came down, holding the front door against the wind. She didn't ask if you'd seen it. She only nodded at the hook by the coat rack, where a rusted anchor on a length of rope hung ready for whoever came next, and said, "Hold it steady, love. It always comes back on the flood."