Close-up of a small fine line black script word tattooed on the inner wrist of a light-skinned hand resting on a striped top.

Fine line script word on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small, single word is written in thin, flowing cursive script in black ink on the inner wrist. The linework is even and delicate with no shading, and the lettering runs diagonally across the skin. The plain black ink stands out against the pale skin, and the background shows a striped top and denim.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Word Cursive

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Snow had buried the lane to the mill by the second night, and Mrs Pryce had given up pretending the coach would come. Hettie carried the lamp down to the cellar stairs and counted the casks by feel, the way her father had taught her before the fever took him. Upstairs the travellers had gathered round the hearth: a surveyor, two sisters selling thread, and a silent man in a grey coat who had paid for a room and not once asked for his supper.

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On the third morning she found the word on the kitchen slate, written in a hand she did not know. It was thin and looping and slanted across the board as if the writer had been in a hurry or afraid of being caught. Nobody would say who had left it. The surveyor swore it was not his. The sisters laughed and said the grey man could not write at all.

She rubbed at it with her sleeve, then stopped, because the letters had already gone into her head and would not leave. That evening she set the slate back on its nail and waited. When the grey man came down for bread she was ready, and she held it up without a word.

He read it, and something in his face gave way like thaw under a roof. "That was my mother's word," he said quietly, "and she is the only one who ever wrote it." Outside, the snow kept falling, and for the first time in three days Hettie did not count the casks.