Close-up of a thin black fine line script tattoo reading Believe in yourself on the inner wrist, with a braided bracelet below it.

Believe in yourself script on wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo is the words Believe in yourself written in two lines in a thin, flowing black script, with Believe in on the upper line and yourself below. The linework is even and fine, and the ink is solid black with no shading or colour. The photo is taken close up on the inner wrist, with a braided bracelet below the tattoo and a laptop keyboard and screen softly out of focus in the background.

Lettering Fine line Forearm Script Word Quote Wrist Bracelet

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The king's clerk died in the spring of the wet year, so the ink-maker's daughter, Tamsin Rook, was sent up the scaffold each morning to copy the council's notices onto the gate of Hollin Marrow. Her letters were thin and even, and she ran a line the way the river ran down the hill, without hurry and without stopping. Her father mixed the soot with walnut oil so the ink would sit black through the rain, and she would stand on the top rung with the brush in her teeth until the last word was dry.

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One grey morning the steward unrolled a scroll and read it aloud to the crowd below. The wells in the lower streets were to be locked until the winter tithe was paid, and any man found drawing water would lose his hands. Tamsin came down the ladder, looked at the scroll, and climbed back up without a word. The crowd waited. Old Mother Pell from the fish-stalls shouted that the girl had better not be dawdling, and Tamsin dipped her brush and wrote the steward's words in her best hand, every line straight as a plumb.

Then, beneath the last line, in letters no bigger than a barley grain, she wrote the thing her mother used to say over the boiling vats when the children came crying: Believe in yourself. She came down the ladder, wiped her hands on her apron, and went home to supper.

The steward's men tried to scrape the gate by dusk, but her father's oil had sunk deep into the wood and would not give up the letters. By morning the rain had softened the notice to a grey smear. The small words beneath it stood black and clear, and the crowd read them, and then, having read them, went down to the lower wells with their buckets as if nobody had ever locked them.