Fine line script tattoo running along the inner forearm of a raised arm, with gold bangles on the other wrist against a pale blue background.

Fine line script on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A hand and forearm are raised against a soft blue-grey backdrop, with a thin cursive line of script tattooed along the inner forearm towards the wrist. The linework is fine and dark, and the lettering is too small and slightly blurred to read clearly. The image is in colour only through the skin, gold bangles and background, and the composition is airy and focused on the arms and hands.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Bangle Ring Hand Wrist

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody on Skerra could read what Morag had written on her arm, and she liked it that way. The ink was soot and gall, pricked in with a fish bone the night before the boats went out, the letters so fine they looked like stitching on a sail. Her mother had told her that a message kept close was a message the sea could not take.

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The post boat came over from Harrin on Thursdays, carrying flour, paraffin and whatever the mainland had forgotten to keep. Ruaridh, the clerk's boy, read every letter aloud before he sealed it, because the islanders would not trust a thing they could not hear. Morag never let him near her wrist. Each week she scrubbed the skin with salt, and each week the words sat darker, as though the arm remembered what the mouth had not said.

In the third winter the mist came down for nine days and the boats stayed on the shingle. On the tenth morning Morag rolled up her sleeve at the slip and found the letters had spread, soft as spilt ink on wet paper. She could not read them any more either. She stood at the edge of the tide and began to say what she thought they had said, one word for each wave.

The gulls rose at the third word and did not come back. When the mist lifted, the boats were coming round the point, and the men on the wall heard her voice carried over the water. Nobody asked her what the words were. Morag kept her sleeve down, and the blue-black line went on fading on her arm, patient as the tide.