Close-up of a small fine line black script word tattoo on the inner wrist, with the hand open against a dark background.

Small script word on the inner wrist

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A small black script word is tattooed on the inner wrist of an open hand, angled diagonally across the skin. The thin, even linework is set against soft, warm skin tones, and a knitted sleeve cuff sits at the bottom edge of the frame. The background is dark and out of focus, so the tattoo is the clear point of the composition.

Fine line Lettering Other Script Word

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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

You find the ledger in the damp cellar beneath the chandler's on Quay Street, its boards swollen like bread left out in the rain. The spine has a word on it in a hand you can't read, rounded letters with small marks sitting above them like gulls on a wire. Harbourmaster Pell says it came off the Brisk Mary the winter she went down with eleven men, and that nobody has opened it since because the paper goes to powder if you breathe on it.

Keep reading

You soak the pages in a tray of cold tea, lift them with a bone folder, and dry each one flat under a sheet of glass on the bench. By the third week you have worked out that the entries are a crew list, one name to a line, and that every name is followed by the same word. It is not a name. It is the thing your grandmother used to shout from the sea wall when the boats came round the point, the word for *you're home*, and you have no idea how the Brisk Mary's clerk knew it.

The last page is different. It has a column of names with no marks beside them, and at the bottom a single line with only the word written on it, pressed so hard the nib tore the paper. Tomorrow's tide table is pinned above your bench, and beside its high water someone has drawn a small, careful tick.

You fold the page into your coat and walk down to the quay at low water, when the mud shines and the bell buoy has nothing to ring about. You stand at the edge of the wall and wait, saying the word under your breath, the way you were taught.