Fine line black tattoo of a small bird on a thin flowing line leading into the word Believe in script, on the inner wrist.

Bird and Believe script on wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A clenched fist is raised against a plain light background, showing a small black tattoo on the inner wrist. A small bird in silhouette sits at the start of a single thin line that flows into the cursive word Believe. The linework is fine and even, in solid black ink with no shading or colour.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Bird Believe Script Line Wrist

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

The wren took the twine on a Tuesday, which Dad said was the only day the wind would let a bird get any work done. I had been tying runner beans to the bamboo canes since breakfast, Gran's ball of hairy green string in my lap, and I'd set it down on the path while I went for the fork. When I came back there was a thin line of it running across the bed, over the courgettes, and up to the shed roof, where something small was tugging.

Keep reading

Gran had a word for creatures that would not leave a thing alone until they had what they came for. She called it mithering. She had been dead eight months and I still said her sayings to the compost heap. The packet of Painted Lady sweet peas was still propped by the back door, her biro note across the front: Believe it will come up, Ruth. Sow thick, thin in June. I had sown thick and not thinned at all, which was the sort of thing she would have tutted at.

I followed the string along the fence and past the water butt. It ended in the old tin watering can on the shelf, where the wren had woven it through a nest of dry moss, cotton threads from my old work shirt, and a clump of Gran's grey hair from her hairbrush, which I had given to the birds in April because I couldn't bear to bin it. I stood there longer than I meant to. Then I cut only the length I needed for the beans and left the rest where it was.

By August the runners had climbed to the gutter. The nest was full and quiet, and a single green thread trailed from its spout like a loose end. Most evenings the wren came down the line from the shed roof to the fence post, and from there she lifted off towards the sweet peas, which had come up after all.