Small black treble clef tattoo on the inner wrist of a forearm, worn beside a dark braided bracelet with a silver clasp.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Treble clef on the inner wrist

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small, solid black treble clef sits on the inner wrist and forearm, angled slightly towards the hand. The linework is clean and uniform, with the ink shown in black and no shading or colour. A dark braided bracelet with a silver clasp and chain links sits just above the tattoo, and the background is soft and out of focus.

Forearm Treble clef Music

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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

Sit down, the lot of you, and mind the peat smoke. No, the story isn't about the sea, though the sea comes into it the way it comes into everything on this rock. This is about the cave at the north end of Eilean Mòr, where the wind goes in one side and comes out the other singing.

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Old Ishbel Gunn used to say the cave had a tune, and the tune was a hook. Nobody could sing it right. The men tried with their pipes and gave up, and the lasses tried with their voices and wept, because the notes kept slipping off the rock like wet weed. Only the shepherd's boy, Calum Rae, who was deaf in one ear from a kick off a ewe, could hear the bottom of it. He heard the low curl at the start and the long fall after, and he knew the thing was a fishing line let down for something that had been gone a long time.

So he went out at the turn of the tide with a coil of tarred line and a tin whistle his mother had bought off a Glasgow pedlar. He whistled the curl, and the cave answered with the fall, and the water under the arch went still as a plate. Then the dot came, a single bright note like a stone dropped in a bucket, and out of the deep rose the seal with the white throat that everyone had given up for drowned.

She swam into the shallows and lay there looking at him, the way the old folk say the dead look at you when they want you to get on with it. Calum put his hand on the line, the cave let go of its song, and for the first time in forty years the island had a tune it could hum to itself. Mind the stair on your way down; it's slick.