Black fine line script tattoo reading Fighter on the forearm near the wrist, with faint pale marks below it.

Fighter script tattoo on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of the word Fighter written in flowing black script across the forearm near the wrist. The linework is thin and even, with the letters joined and a slight slant. The skin is light and the background is a pale, softly folded fabric.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The shutter of the gym is still half down when you arrive a little before midnight, the streetlamp outside buzzing like a trapped wasp. Mrs Okonedo passes the brush and pot through the gap and says the word must be on the glass before the lads come in at six, because the first runners always stop to look at the window. You have lettered forty years of pub names and dry cleaners, and you know script is the hardest thing to hold steady in the dark, because the line must keep its slant even when your wrist begins to ache.

Keep reading

You thin the black with a drop of turpentine and lay the first stroke, a long loop that climbs and dips like the handwriting on an old wedding certificate. The letters join as you go, each one leaning into the next. A bus sighs past. Someone in a hood raps on the door, reads over your shoulder, and walks off without a word. Inside, the posters on the wall carry the names of men in gold leaf, all square capitals and no tenderness at all, and you think that this word wants something lighter, something that could bend and still stand.

By three the glass is finished. You step back under the lamp and the word leans forward, thin and even, as though it has somewhere to be. Mrs Okonedo's nephew, who has been dozing on a crate by the bins, wakes and reads it aloud, slowly, one syllable at a time, and the sound of his voice in the empty street makes him sit up straighter.

You pack the brushes and leave the lamp on for the paint's sake. Walking home, you keep your cuffs tucked away from your coat, but a fleck of black has got onto your knuckle anyway. By the time the sun touches the rooftops, the word will be shining back at the street from the glass, and the first runner of the morning will pause, read it, and decide to keep going.