Small black fine line Om symbol tattoo on the inner wrist, with a hand above it painted with coral nail varnish.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small Om symbol on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A photograph of a small black Om symbol tattoo on the inner wrist, shown against a pale hand and grey fabric. The linework is thin and smooth, with the curves and dot of the symbol clearly defined. The image is in black and grey tones, and the composition places the tattoo in the lower part of the frame with the fingers at the top.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, the lot of you, under the awning, and mind the drip off the corner, it's been finding the same spot since Tuesday. Rain on a market is a noisy thing. Tarpaulins drum, the fishmonger swears at his ice, and every pair of boots squelches its own bad tune. Young Tomas Reddy stood at the bell stall that wet morning and couldn't hear a thing over it all, and he said so to old Mrs Oakes, who kept the stall with brass bells hung from wire.

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She didn't laugh at him. She took down a small bronze bowl, no bigger than a teacup, struck its rim with a wooden stick and set it spinning on the trestle. 'Listen under the noise,' she said. 'Everything has a note beneath it, and if you find the note you can hear the whole market being sung.' Tomas shut his eyes and heard nothing but rain for an hour. Then he heard it: a low hum like a kettle thinking about boiling, a sound that rose, curled back on itself and started again, round and round, the way a loop of ink closes on the page.

He tried for three days. He missed the bus, forgot his gloves, and once walked straight into the fountain in the square. On the fourth morning the rain came down so hard the gutters sang, and under that roar he caught the note clear as struck glass. He ran to the stall with water pouring off his cap. Mrs Oakes was already packing the bowl into a tin. 'Took you long enough,' she said, and handed him the stick.

The rain eased off that afternoon. For one breath the whole market stood still, the fishmonger with his hands in his apron, the tarpaulins sagging and silent, and in that breath Tomas heard the note, and so, I'd wager, did every soul under this awning. Now, who's got a penny for the next one?

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