Fine line black script tattoo reading lumos on a forearm, shown in a black and white photo.

Lumos script on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A thin black script word, lumos, runs along a pale forearm with a slight upward flow towards the right. The linework is delicate and even, with the letters joined in a single continuous stroke. The black and white photograph has soft light and a plain pale fabric background, which keeps the focus on the tattoo.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down, sit, and mind the rope, it's older than your father. You'll want to know why the Scarrow light went dark in the winter of the great fog, and why Hester Penhale walked up the cliff path that night with a pencil stub behind her ear. I'll tell you what I know, which is what my mother told me, and that's near enough the truth.

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The oil boat had not come for nine days. The mantle had cracked in the gale, and Tobias Penhale, the keeper, lay upstairs with a fever that rattled in his chest. Eleven herring boats were out past the Gullet, and the only thing between them and the Teeth was a lamp with no light in it. Hester had nothing but a tin of matches, a jar of lamp black, and a word her own mother used to say over the wick when the cottage was cold. Lumos, she called it. Nobody on this coast speaks that tongue anymore, and I've never found anyone who could tell me what it meant.

She climbed the tower and laid her palm flat on the great glass lens. It was so cold it burned. Then she traced the word across it with one finger, slow, in a single stroke, never lifting her hand, because her mother had always said a true word must be said without a break. She said it again, and again, until her voice cracked like the mantle had.

By first light the fog had thinned to rags, and the eleven boats came in one after another, following a beam that the men swore was burning bright as a lamp at midsummer. The oil tank, when Tobias's brother climbed up to check, was bone dry. The glass was warm to the touch, and there was a smear of soot across it in the shape of a word nobody could read.

The lamp was dry, mind you. The keeper's wife was not. Make of that what you will, and pass me the teapot.