Close-up of a fine line tattoo of a thin pointed shape, possibly a blade or quill, on the side of a finger, in black ink.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Thin pointed line tattoo on a finger

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A close-up photograph of a single thin, pointed shape drawn in fine black linework along the side of a finger. The shape tapers to a point at one end and has small internal lines near the broader end, with light grey shading. The finger rests on blue denim, which fills the lower left and the background.

Fine line Hand Blade Quill Line drawing

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The nib had split again by the time the lamp on Ward Nine guttered, and Agnes Pryce sat with the ledger open and her knife already in her hand. Night sister had said a quill would hold for a week if it was cut square. Agnes had cut it square twice now, and it still skipped on the word 'discharged'.

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Down the corridor a bell rang once and stopped. She knew it was the bed by the window, where Mr Halloran had been asking for water since eleven. She wrote the time, two fifteen, and the initials of the orderly who had gone to fetch it, then tapped the feather against her thumb the way her father used to tap his pipe against a boot heel before lighting it.

At four the rain came off the moor and the windows hummed in their frames. Agnes trimmed the quill again, slower this time, turning it until the point was fine as a hair. She wrote the names in the order they had come through the doors, which was the only order she trusted, and when she reached Halloran she wrote his name and then, in smaller letters, that he had asked for the blue cup.

At half past six the day sister came on with wet shoulders and a flask. She looked at the ledger, at the neat thin lines running down each page, and said the copy was cleaner than the doctor's. Agnes capped the ink and did not tell her that the pen was the only thing in the room that had stayed steady all night.