Fine line script tattoo reading free on the back of a hand, resting on a shoulder in a denim shirt.

Free script on the back of a hand

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A close crop shows a hand resting on a shoulder, with the word free written in thin black script across the back of the hand. The linework is delicate and even, with a single continuous stroke extending past the lettering. The palette is black on skin, with a turquoise ring and beaded bracelets and a blue denim shirt around it.

Fine line Lettering Hand Free Script Word Hand Shoulder

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dessie had the kite out of the cupboard before his mum was up, a red diamond with a tail of knotted carrier bags. Corrie Court's lift had been broken since March, so he took the stairs two at a time, the spool knocking against his hip on every landing, until the fire door at the top gave onto the roof and the whole sky opened above the car park.

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The wind was good. Mr Okonedo from flat 34 was up there already with his terrier, watching the pigeons drop off the parapet. 'Mind the edge,' he said, without turning round, and Dessie said he would. He ran the kite out across the gravel, felt it tug, then lift. The line hummed. Through his fingers it was the only straight thing on the estate, one thin unbroken stroke running from his hand up into the blue, past the chip shop sign and the rusted bins, out past the last of the grey.

He had copied the word onto his hand in biro that morning, off the spine of his sister's library book, so he would remember which way the letters leaned. Then the spool slipped. The line burned across his palm and he grabbed at it, and for a second he held the whole sky on his fingers. Then it went. The kite dipped low over the bins, swung wide, and climbed again, higher and smaller, until it was a red full stop above the flats.

Dessie stood at the edge with his hand open. The terrier barked at nothing. Below him the stairwell breathed its usual smell of damp and fried onions, and the thin red ghost of the string was already gone from his palm, though the word was still there, leaning the way he had drawn it.