Black and white photo of a fine line script tattoo reading I surrender on the inner forearm, near the wrist, with two hands clasped beside it.

I surrender script on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a small, thin cursive script reading I surrender on the inner forearm, close to the wrist. The linework is fine and even, with no shading, and the lettering runs diagonally up the arm. Two hands rest together in the lower part of the frame, and a wristwatch with a rectangular face is visible on the other wrist.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Wrist Hand Watch

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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

Mrs Ada Pellow had sent forty-one telegrams that morning, and the forty-second was waiting on the spike by the window when Tom Crake came back from his breakfast. He read it twice, then read the pencilled note clipped beneath it: Sender insists on exact wording. No ornament. Count the words for the bill.

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The message was two words long. I SURRENDER. Tom had sent plenty of brisk things in his six years at the Marine Parade office, lodgings wanted, tide late, come home, but nothing like that, and he could not tell from the paper whether it was a boxer's defeat or a widow giving up on her late husband's debts. Mrs Pellow, who kept the boarding house above the harbour wall, would not say. She only tapped the counter with a gloved finger and said, "Those are the words, Mr Crake. Send them as written."

He sent them at a quarter past eleven, the key chattering under his hand like rain on a slate roof. Out past the breakwater a lugger came in against the wind, its sail coming down slowly while the reply clicked back: RECEIVED. THANK YOU. KEEP THE CHANGE.

The next morning Mrs Pellow came in again, dripping from the wet street, and laid a fresh slip on the counter. This time it held one word, and she did not ask him to count it. BEGIN. Tom looked up at her, and she was already turning towards the door, leaving the damp print of her umbrella on the floorboards.