Black and grey photo of the word dust in thin script lettering on the inner forearm, with a watch strap and an open book behind.

Dust script lettering on a wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph shows the word dust written in a single line of thin, cursive script on the inner forearm, just above the wrist. The linework is clean and even, with dark black ink and a small cross-stroke on the final letter. The image is black and white, with a watch strap crossing the arm and printed book pages filling the background.

Lettering Fine line Forearm Script Word Wrist Watch Book

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mrs Okonedo had run the sixth-form library like a bank vault, so when Ruth walked into the function room at the Crown and saw a battered copy of The Mayor of Casterbridge propped against the cheese board, she stopped so suddenly that a man in a lanyard walked into her back and apologised for it.

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Nobody had signed that book out since the spring of 1994. Ruth knew because she had been the last to borrow it, three weeks before the Easter exams, and had never taken it back. She had carried it everywhere in her rucksack, reading the same chapter about the furmity woman until the spine split, then shoved it behind the radiator in the drama corridor when the bell went and forgotten it. Somebody must have found it when the old block was cleared. Somebody must have kept it.

"Pip Harlow," said a voice at her elbow. He was balder now and wore a suit that fitted him better than his school blazers ever had. "Found it in a skip outside the old block. Thought you'd want to pay the fine." He held out his hand, palm up, as if he expected coins.

She took the book. Dust lifted off the top edge and hung in the light from the window, fine and grey as ash from a grate. She wiped her thumb across the cover and left a dark smudge on the board. Inside the front cover, in her own careless capitals, someone had written her name and underlined it twice. Pip was still waiting. She opened the book at the place where the bookmark had been and found a buttercup, pressed flat and brown as paper, holding its page as if it had never meant to let go.