Small black fine-line tattoo of a stethoscope on the inner forearm near the wrist, shown against a metal surface.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Stethoscope tattoo on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small outline tattoo of a stethoscope sits on the inner forearm near the wrist, with the tubing curving down to the chest piece. The linework is thin and even, and the design is filled with solid black ink rather than shading. The background shows a patterned pink garment and a grey metal surface, with the arm filling most of the frame.

Fine line Forearm

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down on that crate, and mind the wasps, they're drunk on the windfalls this time of year. Now. You want to know why Enid Pargeter walked the Hollin Bank orchard every evening of late August with a stethoscope round her neck like a vicar with a stole? I'll tell you, though you'll not believe me.

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She'd carried it home from the cottage hospital when they pensioned her off, a black thing with the rubber gone soft and sticky. Her husband Harold laughed himself sick. Every evening she'd go down the rows, pick a tree, and press the cold chest piece flat against the bark the way she used to press it to a sick child's ribs. Then she'd close her eyes and listen.

Harold said he'd heard nothing but the wind. Well, Enid said, you were never quiet enough to hear anything. The old Bramley by the gate, she said, had a slow beat, like a man climbing stairs. The young Cox over the wall ran quick and light, the way a girl does before a dance. And the Discovery by the beck, the one that split in the frost of 1963, had a flutter in it, and she'd never let anyone cut it down.

The autumn Harold died, Enid stopped at the Bramley and didn't move for a long while. Then she took the stethoscope off, hung it on the lowest bough where the apples hang heaviest, and said, quite plainly, "There. You're still going, then." The tree, she swore, creaked once in reply.