Close-up of a fine line black tattoo of the word faith with a cross running through it, on the neck behind an ear.

Fine line faith script with cross behind the ear

Fine line · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo reads the word faith in thin, cursive-style script, with a vertical stroke crossing through the letters to form a cross. It is in black ink with a clean, even line and no shading. The photo is a close view of the side of a person's neck behind the ear, with hair held back and several ear piercings visible.

Fine line Lettering Neck Faith Cross Script Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Now sit close, because the lamp needs feeding and I am too old to tell this twice. Up at Glyn Colliery, in the year the second seam flooded, every timber prop in the lower drift carried a chalk word on its back. Faith, it said, written slantwise, with a long stroke running through the letters like a prop laid across a doorway. The men called it the chapel mark, though the chapel never claimed it.

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The boy who asked what it meant was Emrys Pugh, a trammer's lad no taller than a tub. The overman, Lewis Hale, who had a face like a shut gate, told him it was the word the men lived on when the coal gave out. Emrys could not read it, so he copied the shape from the props onto his own cap lining every morning, and he got the cross wrong every time, the upright too short and the bar drooping like a tired arm. Nobody corrected him. There was no time for lessons in that place.

On a Tuesday in February the water came through the old workings faster than any man could run. The electric lamps drowned in their own cases, and the dark was so complete you could not tell your hand from the rock. Emrys went forward on his knees with his fingers out, feeling for the timbers, and found the chalk by touch. He could not see the letters. He felt for the stroke through them, the long line and the short one, and followed it all the way to the cage.

When they brought the last of the men up, Lewis Hale held his cap to the light and laughed until he coughed. The word was Emrys's own crooked hand, the one nobody had mended. So when you ask me what faith looks like, I tell you it is a thin line drawn through a word, and a boy's wobbly cross that you can feel in the dark long before you can read it.