Close photo of a small black fine line script lettering tattoo on the inner forearm, with a hand resting over the knee and red nail polish.

Fine script lettering on the inner forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A person sits with their knees raised and hands clasped, showing a small black script lettering tattoo on the inner forearm near the wrist. The thin, slightly uneven linework is in solid black ink, and the text is only partly legible in this photo. The soft, warm-toned image shows bare thighs above black stockings, a knitted sweater sleeve and a patterned sofa.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Lettering Phrase

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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

The wire from Calais came in at a quarter past four, and I took it down in pencil the way Father taught me, every letter square and no capitals wasted. Four words and a surname. The fog had come up off the Strait like wet wool, and the lamps along the harbour wall were only smudges of yellow. I read it twice before I gave it to the boy, because a telegram that short is either a kindness or a sentence.

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The boy was Tom Harrow, twelve years old and proud of his bicycle, whose bell did not work. He pedalled off into the murk towards Marine Terrace. I stayed at the counter with the ink pot and the clock, listening to the foghorn and thinking about the words I had copied. My dear, the wire began, and then the rest was smudged where the paper had been folded in a wet pocket somewhere between France and here. Someone had written it in a fast slanting hand, all loops and no patience.

Tom came back an hour later with the reply, which was blank. The woman at Marine Terrace had taken the telegram at her door, read it, and given him nothing but a shake of the head and a shut door. So I wrote the answer myself, in my own careful capitals this time: RECEIVED. STAY WHERE YOU ARE. The clock ticked. Out past the breakwater the ferry sounded its horn, and I could not tell whether it was coming in or going out.

In the morning the fog had lifted and a single figure stood at the end of the pier, a suitcase at her feet, looking over the grey water. I did not go out to her. Some messages are only meant to be delivered once, and I had already done my part. I wrote the date in the ledger and underlined it, which Father would have scolded me for, since a clerk ought to keep his ink for the facts.