Black and white photo of a fine line script tattoo reading be still running diagonally along the inner forearm.

Be still script on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a forearm with the words be still written in a continuous fine line script. The linework is thin, even and solid black, with a looping stroke running from the lower left up towards the upper right. The skin is lit softly from the left against a dark background and grey fabric, which keeps the focus on the lettering.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Text

Find an artist for this

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 closer, the lot of you, and mind the lamp. No, this one has no dragon in it. It starts with the Tane in spate, the winter they called the brown water year, when the mill wheels of Harrowmere turned backwards and Old Pell the bridge-keeper's cat walked out onto the ice and never came home.

Keep reading

Maud Ashcombe kept the ferry on that stretch, and she could not swim, which was a joke the town enjoyed more than she did. That morning the far bank was a crowd of shouting men and the near landing was a churn of foam. Young Tobin Greer, the miller's boy, had gone under the sluice gate chasing a hat, and the current had him pinned against the iron like a leaf on a grate. Her father had taught her one thing before the fever took him. When the river has hold of you, do not fight it. Be still, and let the water show you where the bottom is.

So she did the hardest thing she had ever done. She dropped the rope, stepped into the shallows, and let the river pull at her skirts while the men bellowed at her to come back. She shut her eyes and counted to forty, feeling for the gap beneath the gate. The current slackened by a finger's width, then another, and her hand closed on a wet wool collar. The men on the bank hauled, the rope sang, and the boy came up coughing and furious about his hat.

By the next morning the Tane had dropped back between its banks, and the drowned bell of the old chapel rang once from under the water, low and sure. Pell's cat was sitting on the bridge step, dry as a biscuit and not the least bit sorry. Maud kept her hands flat on the oars for the rest of her days, and nobody in Harrowmere ever again saw her hurry a river.