Close-up of a fine line black script tattoo reading be still on the inner forearm, with a hand holding a white mug of coffee.

Fine line script reading be still on the wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A hand holding a white mug of frothy coffee is shown from above, with a red sweatshirt and grey paving in the background. A thin black script tattoo reading be still runs along the inner forearm near the wrist, with smooth, delicate linework. The image is in natural colour, with the tattoo in black ink against the skin and the mug and sleeve providing the main warm and neutral tones.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Coffee Mug Hand Script Nail polish

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The knives had gone blunt in the damp, so Marguerite spent the afternoon at the grinding wheel while rain found the holes in the big top. Nobody had paid to watch knives since the council stopped letting the Halloran Brothers' Travelling Spectacular park on the Co-op field in Millbrook Road. Still, Dell Askew insisted the blades be sharp enough to slice a playing card dropped from the rigging, because that was the act, and the act was all the company had left to sell.

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That night, under a single work lamp in the cold ring, she stood against the plywood board with her arms out. Six years she had done this, and her whole job was to be still. Dell threw from twelve paces, the handle turning once in the air, and each blade thudded into the wood around her outline so close she felt the air shift. 'Be still,' he called before every throw, the same two words, and she had long ago stopped hearing them as an order. They were only the shape of the trust between them, worn smooth like a stone kept in a pocket.

In the morning the lorry was loaded and the big top lay folded in a heap like something shot down. Dell found her on the caravan step with a flask of coffee gone lukewarm and poured it into a chipped mug. 'Last show was yesterday,' he said. 'Buyer wants the board for firewood, probably.' He looked at the scarred plywood, then at her, and for once he did not give the instruction.

She set the mug on the step and watched the foam fade to a grey ring. The engine turned over. Somewhere behind the caravan a blade rang against the wheel in the empty field. She stayed where she was, hands around the cold cup, and let the lorry go without her.