Close photo of a small fine line script tattoo in black ink running across the inner forearm, with a hand and pink knit sleeve in the frame.

Fine line script tattoo on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small line of thin, slightly slanted script runs across the inner forearm. The lettering is fine black linework with even, solid ink, though it is hard to read at this size. A pink knit sleeve, a hand with red nail polish and a dark background frame the tattoo.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Lettering Phrase Text

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Agnes Pell lit the oven before the church clock had decided whether it was five or half past four. The street was still dark and smelt of cold stone and yesterday's rain. She shaped the dough with her knuckles the way her mother had, then took the bone skewer from its nail and wrote small in the crust before it went in, because the hand that taught her to bake had also taught her that a loaf should carry a message.

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Her son Tobias had gone down to the harbour in March with the herring men, and the only letter since had come on the back of a flour sack, pencil pressed so lightly it could have been a fly's track. It said he would be home when the nets were mended. She had read it so often the paper had gone soft as cloth.

Every morning after that she scored a line into the top of the loaf and left it on the sill for the first carter, who was paid in bread and gossip. Nobody read it. The carter said he could not make out the words at that size, and Agnes said that was the point, a thing you had to lean towards to understand.

On the third Tuesday of May the loaf came out of the oven already marked. The skewer had not touched it. The lines ran thin and slanting across the crust, the way his hand always ran when he was tired or happy. She stood with the peel in her hands until the bread cooled and the words were still there, and then she opened the door to the wet street, where a boy with a rope over his shoulder stood dripping and grinning, asking for the baker.