Fine-line black tattoos on a forearm showing a plaster, a hand gesture, a small wedge and a ribbon banner reading WHATEVER.

Small fine-line bandage, hand and WHATEVER banner

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Four small tattoos sit on the inner forearm: an outlined plaster, a hand making a V shape, a small wedge shape, and a curled ribbon banner with the word WHATEVER in capitals. The linework is thin and uniform with no shading, and the ink is black against the skin. The motifs are spaced loosely across the forearm with the banner curving down the right side of the group.

Fine line Forearm Hand Lettering

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The relief boat was late again, so the supply crate sat on the landing where the gulls could look at it. Marguerite Fenn had kept the Skerrow light for nineteen years and had learned that lateness was a kind of weather, something to be noted in the log and otherwise left alone. She counted what was in the crate the way other people counted their blessings. Two tins of peaches. A sack of flour gone soft at one corner. A wedge of Cheddar wrapped in greaseproof paper, which was the only thing Dennis had remembered without being told.

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Dennis was nineteen, new from Penzance, and had put a plaster on his wrist that morning after catching it on the winch handle. He kept touching the edge of it with his thumb. "Is it bad?" he asked. "It's a scratch," she said. "Scratches are the ones that want looking at." She pushed the peaches toward him and he held up two fingers at the nearest gull, the way boys did, and she told him that bird had been here longer than the lighthouse and had opinions about both.

The boat came in after dark with its engine coughing. Dennis hopped down to ask the skipper for the post, and the skipper said there wasn't any. When Dennis asked whether there was anything else, the skipper shrugged a great deal and said, "Whatever you like, son." Dennis came back up the steps laughing, already turning the phrase into a story he would tell in Penzance, and Marguerite let him have it.

She lit the lamp at ten past nine. The beam went out over the water and came back round to the landing, where the cheese sat unwrapped on the rail with its bite marks, and she wrote in the log under the wind direction: Relief late. Cheese received. Boy scratched, not badly. Whatever.