Black blackletter-style lettering reading I'M AWSOME across the upper back, shown in a close photo of bare skin.

I'm awsome lettering across upper back

Lettering · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a person's upper back showing the words I'M AWSOME tattooed in large black blackletter-style capitals across the shoulder blades. The lines are solid and bold, with the letters spaced evenly in a single horizontal row against lightly textured skin. The image is in natural colour with no colour ink, and the background is softly out of focus.

Lettering Back Text Phrase Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The stencil came in on a wet Tuesday, pinned to a sheet of brown card with a thumbprint of gravy in one corner. Cyril Hobday read the words twice before he said anything. The customer had printed them himself in biro, the capitals leaning like fence posts: I'M AWSOME. Cyril had lettered at Hobday and Sons on Duke Street for thirty-one years, and he knew the difference between a spelling mistake and a sentiment.

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Ada Pell came out from the back with paint on her cuffs and a mahl stick under her arm. She looked over his shoulder and sniffed. "Paint what's written, Cyril. It's not our business to correct a man's opinion of himself." So he mixed a black enamel as thick as treacle, ruled his guidelines in chalk, and started on the blackletter. The I went down clean, its little hook at the top like a shepherd's crook. The M took him the best part of an hour, each stroke broken and feathered the way his old master had taught him, and when he stood back it looked like a bad joke made by a good hand.

The man came in on the Friday to collect it. He stood in the doorway with rain dripping off his cap and read the board slowly, lips moving over each letter. Then he laughed, a proper laugh that filled the shop, and asked Cyril to fix the spelling.

"No charge," Cyril said. "It's your sign, mate. I only wrote what you gave me."

The board went up over the garage doors that afternoon, bold and black against the brick. Ada never said another word about it. She just handed Cyril the hammer and watched him drive in the last nail, and every time it rained after that, the water ran down the crooked W in a neat little line, as if somebody had meant it.