Black fine line script tattoo of a Bible verse, reading God is within her, she will not fall, with a citation, running along the inside of a forearm.

Handwritten scripture on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a forearm with a handwritten script tattoo in black ink, reading God is within her / she will not fall, with the reference Ps. 46:5 beside it. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, and the lettering runs diagonally from the wrist towards the elbow. The skin is pale and the background is white bedding, so the black ink is the only strong colour in the frame.

Lettering Forearm Scripture Bible verse Quote Handwriting Script Psalm

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The post came over on Tuesday in my cousin's creel boat, because the ferry had been tied up since the gale and nobody on Scarra was going anywhere they couldn't walk. Among the bills was a postcard in my mother's hand, the one she used for everything, all looped capitals and no hurry. She had copied a line out for me and underlined the reference twice, the way she used to correct the church notices before the printer in Stornoway got them wrong.

Keep reading

I read it at the table with the lamp lit, though it was only three in the afternoon. The sky had been the colour of pewter since Sunday, and the wind kept finding the gap under the back door and pushing a fan of sand across the flags. I found her Bible on the shelf with the cracked spine and turned to the psalm. There was her pencil tick in the margin, and below it, a line I had never noticed: she shall not be moved.

By evening the wind had dropped to something you could talk over. I took the grease pencil from the drawer where the fishing licences live and went out to the gable end, where the wall still holds the last of the light. I wrote the words in my best capitals, backwards at first, then turned the whole thing round so it would read from the track. My hand shook more than the wind had. Halfway through the second line the pencil snapped, and I finished with a stub of coal from the bucket.

When I came in, the postcard was on the table where I had left it, face up, and the lamp had been turned a little higher. The draught from the door, I told myself, and sat down anyway, and listened to the sea settle against the rocks like something being told to stay where it was.