Fine line black script tattoo reading focus along the inner forearm near the wrist.

Focus script tattoo on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A thin black script word, focus, runs diagonally along the inner forearm close to the wrist, with a long hairline tail that trails off past the end of the lettering. The linework is fine and even, and the ink is solid black with no shading or colour. The photograph is taken from behind the arm against a soft, blurred purple-brown background, with the wrist and hand in sharp focus.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Word

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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 mirror at the Lyceum Hall has a crack running down its left side, and Mrs Okafor tells every new pupil to fix their eyes on that seam when they turn. Not on the reflection, she says, because the reflection is only you agreeing with yourself. The seam. Everything else in the room will try to drag your head round after it: the brass band warming up, the chairs scraping, the man from the tax office waving from the bar.

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For eleven Thursdays you spin and your head arrives half a beat late, and each time she claps once and says the same word, not unkindly. Focus. You start counting the turns on the sprung boards under your feet, four, five, six, and you hate the sound of her voice saying it, and you hate more that she is right. Your partner, Dennis, who has two left feet and a tremendous laugh, tells you to stop glaring at the crack as if it owes you money.

At the Winter Assembly the floor is full and the lights are low. You step out for the quickstep, pick the seam, and go. The room smears into gold and noise on either side of you, but that line of broken glass holds steady, and you come out of the last turn facing exactly where you meant to. Mrs Okafor does not smile. She nods at the seam, then at you, and turns back to her tea.

Later she hands you a programme with a pencilled line across the back. Just the word, and beneath it a long stroke that runs off the edge of the card, the way she always let her sentences trail when she expected you to finish them yourself.