Close view of a raised hand showing a small black semicolon tattoo on the inner wrist, drawn in fine line style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small semicolon tattoo on inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A raised hand with painted coral nails is shown against a plain white wall. A single small black semicolon sits on the inner wrist, drawn with clean, even linework and solid black ink. The composition is simple, with the tattoo placed low in the frame and plenty of empty space around the hand.

Fine line Forearm Semicolon Punctuation Minimal

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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

Morag had set type for the Tiree Gazette since she was fifteen, and she knew the weight of every sort in the case by touch. The semicolon lived in the small compartment nearest her left hand, the one old Mr Kerr had refilled so often the brass had worn bright. Most weeks it went unused. Kerr held that a semicolon was a sentence that could not make up its mind, and he would not let one into the paper unless the sentence truly deserved to be kept.

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The winter the ferry stopped, the notices came in by hand: births, boats for sale, a dance in the hall. Then a letter arrived from the mainland in a careful, slanting script, asking for one line to be printed for a man who had gone out in October and not come back. The writer wanted something she had not expected. The line must not finish. Morag's mother had always said that a sentence which stops is a small lie, and this woman wanted the notice left open, like a door on the latch.

Morag set it that night by the stove, letter by letter, and when she reached the end of the words she stood a long time with the little mark between her finger and thumb. Then she set it. The line read: He was the best hand with a net on this island; the tide keeps his place.

Kerr found it on the proof and said nothing. He lifted the page from the stone, inked it himself, and hung it with the others. The next morning the sea wind came through the shop door and the notices on the drying line lifted and settled, lifted and settled, as if the island were drawing breath before it went on talking.