Fine line script tattoo reading Courage on the forearm near the wrist, shown in pale ink against the skin.

Courage script on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of the word Courage written in flowing cursive script across the inside of a forearm near the wrist. The linework is thin and even, with a pale, slightly raised look that suggests a healed or lightly coloured ink. The word fills the frame from left to right, with the tail of the C and the final e extending into long loops, against a softly blurred background.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Courage Script Word

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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

Dennis Pruitt recognised me first, which surprised nobody, since he spent most of 1978 trying to copy my capitals and gave up in a blot. He pushed a pint across the trestle table in the back room of the Crown and said, 'You still lean your letters into a gale, Miss Harte.' I told him the gale had been his fault, not the letters, and he laughed so hard he had to set the glass down.

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Nobody mentioned Ruth Ellery, though I'd been waiting all evening for someone to. She came to Ashcombe Road in the spring term with a stammer that vanished the moment she held a pen, and a habit of signing her name so faintly it looked like pencil. On Fridays I gave the class one word to copy in their best hand. Most picked cheerful ones. Ruth always asked for the same thing, 'Courage, please, Miss', and she practised the big looping C on the back of her spelling book until the paper furred. By the summer her C swept out and curled back under the whole word, like a hand reaching to steady it.

Her postcard arrived in October, sent from Lisbon, where she had found work painting shop signs on tiled walls. The lettering was mine, or at least my lesson: the C flung wide, the final letter dropping its long tail beneath the line. On the back, in the same ink, she had written only, 'Still practising, Miss. Tell Dennis Pruitt the gale is still blowing.' I read it aloud at the bar, and for once Dennis had nothing to say.