Black and white photo of the word grace in thin, lowercase fine line lettering on the inner wrist and forearm.

Lowercase word grace on an inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white close-up of an inner wrist and forearm with the word grace written in thin, lowercase lettering across the middle of the frame. The letters are fine and even, and they look pale against the skin, so the ink reads as light rather than dark. The background is blurred grass and the photo is taken straight on, with the word sitting centrally on the forearm.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Word Lettering

Find an artist for this

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 rain came sideways off the river that Thursday, and I had the awning poles lashed to the van before the first customer found me. Ada from the fish stall ran over with a bin liner over her head and said the council had moved the pitch again, and I said I'd believed her when she said the council was the reason for everything. We laughed the way you do at six in the morning in February, when laughing is cheaper than crying.

Keep reading

My brother's old thermos was in the box under the till, the one with the dent he put in it falling off a wall in Margate. I'd kept it for twelve years without deciding why. Dad used to say a person's handwriting was the last thing they'd give away, so when the solicitor's letter came with his signature on the envelope, I stood by the bread van and just looked at the loops of the letters, thin and even, pale in the grey light like they'd been written with a pencil that had been pressed too gently.

I sold nothing until half nine. Then a woman in a yellow mac bought a jar of marmalade and asked if the stall had always been called Fenwick's, and I said only since my father's name stopped being on the lease. She tapped the jar and said it was a good name for a stall, that it sounded like someone who knew where the weather was going. I didn't tell her he'd never once checked the forecast.

By noon the rain had thinned to a mist and the lettering on the chalkboard had run into a smear. I wiped it clean with my sleeve and wrote the day's prices again, the same way he used to, slow and rounded, and when I looked up the sun had come through over the car park like someone had opened a window.