Black lettering tattoo reading There's no place like HOME on the inner wrist, with a large looping script H.

There's no place like home lettering on wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows the phrase There's no place like in small script above and HOME in larger lettering below, with an oversized looping script H linking the two. The linework is solid and even in black ink, and the lettering sits across the inner wrist against a pink background. The photograph is taken straight on, with the hand and wrist filling most of the frame.

Lettering Forearm Phrase Home Script Lettering Quote

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The ring corridor of the Tessaly Drift has no windows, so you learn the time by the smell of the hydroponic bays and by the chalk marks your mother makes on the bulkhead beside the galley hatch. Tonight she has written the cycle number in her small slanted hand, and beneath it, in the looping capitals she saves for things she means, THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME. You ask her what home is when the nearest one is four hundred light-years behind you and getting older every second.

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She doesn't answer straight away. She takes the stylus from her pocket and draws a long curl under the H, the way the old reels showed it, a great looping stroke that goes round and comes back to where it started. "That's the orbit," she says. "Nothing out here goes in a straight line. We just keep coming back to the same place and calling it somewhere." You think that's a poor sort of answer, and you say so, and she laughs, and the laugh echoes off the pipes the way it always does.

Later, when the lights dim to night cycle, you lie in your bunk and count the hull ticks as the Drift swings past the dead sun Halden, which gives no warmth and no light, only a shadow you can feel in your teeth. You think about the reel of the girl in the ruby slippers clicking her heels. You try it yourself, quietly, toes pointed, and nothing happens except that you knock your knee on the bunk rail.

In the morning the chalk line is smudged where the hatch seal brushed it, but the H survives, the big loop of it still reaching under the words. You put your palm flat on the bulkhead beside it and feel the ship humming steady through the metal, carrying everyone the long way round, and you decide that the curl means you can go as far as you like, provided you come back to what you drew.