Fine line script word on a shoulder
Fine line · Shoulder · Black and grey · Photo
A close photograph of a single line of cursive script in black ink on the upper back shoulder, angled diagonally from the shoulder blade towards the upper arm. The linework is thin and even, with the lettering rendered in a single black tone. The skin is pale and softly lit, with a black lace bra strap and a delicate necklace in the frame.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Come closer, the lot of you, and mind the roots, for the wood at the bottom of Hollin Lane has never once made a path easy for anyone. My grandmother told me this one, and she had it from a woman who kept the mill when the mill still turned.
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There was a carter called Tobiah Venn who came down the lane every Michaelmas with a cart of peat and a temper to match. One autumn the cart lost a wheel at the ford, and the wood took its time giving him back his road. He sat under the old oak at the forest's edge all night, cold to the bone, and a fox came and sat with him, which no fox had ever done for a man before or since.
Come morning, a stranger stood at the ford holding a lantern that had gone out. She asked him nothing. She only handed him a small slate, and on it, in a hand so fine it looked like thread drawn through stone, someone had written a single word, leaning like a hill in the wind. Tobiah could not read it, being unlettered, so he carried it to the parson. The parson read it slowly, then read it again, and then his eyes filled, though he would never say why.
The slate is gone now, and the wood is still there, and the word is spoken at the edge of the trees by anyone who has been carried home. Mind how you say it. It was never meant for the open air, only for the one who had earned it.
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