Black fine line script lettering reading Stay Strong across the inner forearm of a person wearing a knitted jumper cuff, in a black and white photo.

Fine line script lettering on inner forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph shows two words in thin, flowing black script across the inner forearm, with the sleeve of a knitted jumper pushed up at the wrist. The linework is fine and even, with a handwritten feel and slight variation in stroke weight. The image is black and white against a dark background, so the tattoo is the clear focus.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Handwriting Word Quote

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain had already smudged the pencil by the time you reached the gate, so the two words on the post sat in the wet like something you could still lift off. Mrs Pargeter had written them in her best hand, then pressed so hard the paper tore at one corner, and she had nailed it to the oak with a spike she'd borrowed from the forge.

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You knew the path because everyone in Hollin knew it. It ran from the last cottage on Fenner Lane through the beeches, down past the charcoal burners' clearing, and out onto the Stanmore road where the carrier waited on Tuesdays. Nobody spoke of the path after dark. Nobody needed to. You had been told often enough that the wood only kept what it was given, and you had been given a canvas bag, two shirts, and a pair of boots that pinched at the toe.

At the gate you stopped and read the words again. Your mother had never been one for speeches. She had said the same thing at the door that morning, straightening your collar with fingers that smelled of yellow soap, and you had nodded as though it were nothing. Now you laid your palm flat over the spike and felt how cold the wood was beneath the wet.

The beeches closed behind you within a dozen steps, the way they always did, and the light went green, then grey. You kept your eyes on the path and your hands in your pockets, and somewhere past the clearing you noticed you had stopped counting your steps. You did not look back at the gate, but you knew the words were still there, pale on the oak, keeping their place for when you came home.