Black and grey fine line tattoo of a zigzag line on the inner wrist, photographed in black and white.

Zigzag line on inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single thin black line forms a jagged zigzag with peaks of different heights, running across the inner wrist. The linework is clean and even with no shading, and the photograph is in black and white. The tattoo sits near the centre of the frame against soft, blurred background detail.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the step, the boards are soft by the hatch. The Brightwater came in on the Tuesday tide with her nets half empty and her skipper grey to the lips, and there was a pen on the harbour office wall that nobody had thought to look at for three days. Old Ansel Crane kept the barometer drum there, a clockwork thing with a paper wrap and a needle that scratched its record as the drum turned. Every fisherman's wife in Skerrow knew that needle better than her own kitchen clock.

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The needle had gone up and down like a fist tapping a table in an argument. Sharp drops, short rises, drops again, and no two peaks the same height. Ansel laid the paper on the counter, put his thumb on the worst of it and said, that's no weather, that's the sea shaking its shoulders. Ada Pell, who ran the chandlery and had an opinion about everything, said the sea had never shaken anything in her life that a good cable couldn't hold down.

Then the Brightwater's mate came up the slipway with a stub of pencil behind his ear. They had turned back for the Reef Gate at the first jolt, he said, and the ground under the hull had gone sideways for a count of nine. Nobody aboard had seen a wave that size. The lines on the paper said the same, and Ansel had never once in forty years been wrong about a line.

So when the gulls go quiet over the breakwater, don't ask me what the sea is doing. Go and look at the paper. Every jag on it is a morning someone came home, and the needle has never once lied to us about the ones it didn't.

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