Small black fine line treble clef tattoo on the upper back, shown in close up on pale skin.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Treble clef on upper back

Fine line · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A single treble clef is drawn in thin black linework on smooth skin, with the top loop extending upward and the lower curl ending in a filled dot. The lines are even and uniform in weight, with light shading in the solid dot. The tattoo sits centrally in an otherwise plain close-up frame, and the skin shows faint redness in places.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit yourself on that crate and don't touch the ladle, it's been in the stock since Tuesday. You want to hear how the Marguerite lost her singer? Right, then. His name was Tobias Quaye, a Gravesend boy who could hold a note longer than a gull can hold the wind, and he had a habit of scratching the same mark into every bulkhead he passed. The mate thought it was a fish hook. The captain thought it was the devil's doing. It was neither. It was a key, though none of us knew the word for it then.

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Up top it stood tall, like a question mark pulled out on a rack. Then it curled back on itself, twice, tight as a coil of rope on the foredeck, and at the foot it swung down into a little blot that he'd press with his thumb until the ink took. He told me once that every tune in the world was written with that key, and the sea had been out of tune since nobody had sung it right.

The night off Finisterre the swell came over the rail and put the lamp out. I was at the range with the bread in the oven, and the whole galley slid to starboard. Somebody shouted that Tobias had gone up to free the jib sheet, and there was no seeing a hand in front of your face. Then, from the foremast, came a low held note, steady as a bell. We followed it hand over hand until we found him lashed to the rail with his mouth open, singing that same pitch the way you'd whistle a dog home.

They say the sea took him in the end, but I don't believe it. Wind can't keep a note, boy. Now hand me that spoon and mind the bread. It's nearly risen, and I've been humming at it since the Marguerite went down.

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