Fine line black tattoo of an H-shaped symbol with a small circle, above a second tattoo of crossed lines with loops, both on forearms.

Two small fine line symbols on forearms

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two small fine line tattoos sit on forearms, one placed above the other. The upper tattoo is a pair of vertical bars joined by a horizontal line with a small circle at the centre, and the lower tattoo is two crossed lines with small loops at the crossing point. Both are rendered in thin black linework on pale skin, set against a blurred red patterned surface.

Fine line Forearm Symbol Circle Loop Bar

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Tom,

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The lodgers have gone up to the front for the regatta and the kitchen is mine for once, so I'll write properly rather than on the back of a bill. Your old oars are still in the boathouse under the tarpaulin, the pair of them lashed where you left them with that loop of tarred cord, crossed over each other like a couple of fishermen's legs. Mr Pryce asked whether his boy could have them. I said not until you'd answered my letters.

The iron gate at the bottom of the yard still sticks, and the bell above it is the one thing I won't have mended. You'll remember what your father said about that bell: it rings for whoever is late for supper. I've been pulling it every evening since March. Mrs Dawes next door says I'm mad, that a bell only means something if somebody's coming. Perhaps she's right.

The tide took the yellow buoy in February and the council hasn't replaced it. Yesterday I walked out to the point with the spare key from the umbrella stand and found the cove still full of the black mussel shells you used to crack for the gulls. Nothing else has moved. I've kept your half of the bed made up, and the window on the landing still doesn't close unless you lift it.

If you're home before the August bank holiday, the oars are yours and so is the room. If you're not, I'll give the oars to Pryce and keep the knot for myself, the way you tied it the summer you were twelve, the loops pulled tight at the middle so nothing could slip. Come home or write, whichever you find easier.

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