Favored, Constant and Graced finger lettering
Lettering · Hand · Black and grey · Photo
Two photographs show the same hand with one word tattooed on each of three fingers: Favored, Constant and Graced, in flowing cursive script. The linework is bold and mostly solid, with some shading in the letter strokes and a slightly softer, greyer finish in the lower photograph. The ink is black or blue-black against the skin, set on a dark denim background in the upper image and a dark surface in the lower one.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Pull your chair nearer the grate, love, the damp gets into the old stories worse than it gets into the bread. You want the Sorrel boys? They came to Hollin House the wet October the pier lost its end to the tide, three brothers with one mother's letter between them and no money for the rent. Their mother had written three words on the back of it, one for each son, and the minister at St Ebba's had painted them onto a slate for the chapel wall. Favored, Constant, Graced. Tom, the eldest, took the first, because he was sure the sea had a fondness for him. Ned took the second, because somebody had to stand still while everything else moved.
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The youngest, Jem, was too small for the boats and too proud to be given a word he hadn't earned, so he went down to the chapel every morning and copied Graced onto his own fingers with a burnt cork and a bit of lard. The landlady here, Mrs Pell, my own gran, thought he was soft in the head. She said it mattered less what a man had written on him than what he did when the lamp went out. Then the November gale came in off the Ness and took four boats from the bay, and Tom's was one of them, and Ned sat up on the sea wall for two nights with his hand round a lantern.
Jem was the one who walked the shingle at low water, past the broken pier, holding up his hand to the wind as if it were a question. On the third morning a boat came grinding in with one man at the oars and a split mast, and it was Tom, grey as a gull and singing something rude. Ned never said a word about the sea wall. He just stood there with his fingers over his mouth, and Jem looked down at his own hand, the cork ink run into the creases, and said nothing either, because the words had done their work and there was nothing left to explain.
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