Black lettering tattoo on the inside of a wrist reading ATTITUDE is EVERYTHING, set in a geometric typeface with arrow lines beside the word is.

Attitude is everything wrist lettering

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a forearm and wrist with the words ATTITUDE is EVERYTHING tattooed in three stacked lines, with the small word is in a circle between two rows of arrow lines. The letterforms are bold, geometric and mostly outlined or solid black, with some letters filled and others in open line work. The ink is black on pale skin against a blurred white shelving unit with plants and baskets behind it.

Lettering Geometric Forearm Quote Arrow Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The gate drops before your hands have finished deciding what they want, so you go with what they know. Four bays of grey and bay stretch ahead of you in the dust of the Circus Maximus, and the roar from the stands is something you feel in your teeth more than hear. Corvinus is already at the first turn, his wheel grinding the post, and you let him have the inside, because Sosius taught you that a rival who is shouting is a rival who is tiring.

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Sosius chalked the words on the stable wall the winter you came to him, a boy with more pride than sense. He wrote them in three stacked lines, the small word 'is' caught in a ring between two rows of arrows, one pointing forward and one pointing back. You asked him what the arrows were for. He said a driver must watch the wheel behind him as hard as the one in front, and that a man who forgets where he has been will crash exactly where he is going.

At the spina your outside wheel lifts off the sand and hangs there, and for one long breath you are certain the chariot will go over. Every instinct says haul back. Instead you lean into the lurch, loosen the left rein and let the horses find their feet, the way you were drilled a hundred times in that dusty yard. The wheel drops. Corvinus is past you on the last straight, his cloak flaring, and the crowd groans as if someone has stolen their coin.

You cross the line second, a length behind him, with grit in your teeth. You do not weep and you do not curse. You raise one hand to the stands, slow and deliberate, and the nearest banner-holder, a girl of perhaps eight, lifts hers back. Sosius will be waiting in the stable with a cup of wine and nothing to say, because the chalk has already said it.