Black serif lettering reading Macbeth and I.iv.50-51 on the inner wrist, in a black and grey lettering style.

Macbeth and a reference line on a wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph shows two lines of black serif lettering on the inner wrist: the word Macbeth above a citation reading I.iv.50-51. The letters are crisp, evenly weighted and set in a clean typeface, with the second line smaller and slightly tighter. The image is in natural light against a plain skin tone and a pale background, with the tattoo as the clear focus.

Lettering Forearm Text Number

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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

Sit yourselves down and pass the bread along before it goes cold, for the bride's grandmother has asked me for a story and I am too old to be refused twice. This one is about Mags Lennie, who kept the lamp at the Tollbooth Inn in Dunning and who had a rule that no guest left her house without first making sure the stars had seen nothing. She said her own father had taught her that, out of a play he saw performed in Perth when he was a lad, where a man stood under the sky and begged the heavens to hide their fires.

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Her nephew Davie came to work the byre that spring with a head full of sums and a pocket full of borrowed books. He was clever, and clever men are dangerous at a table, for they can talk themselves into any room. Every night he sat by the fire with a candle he would not let her snuff, and every night he read the same lines under his breath, the ones about black and deep desires, until the dog got up and left the hearth.

One evening the laird's cart came up the road late, bringing a purse of silver for the new roof and word that the laird's cousin would sleep in the best bed. Mags watched Davie watch the purse. She said nothing. She only crossed to the window and drew the curtain over the little lamp, so that the sky outside could see nothing at all.

Next morning the purse was still on the table and Davie was gone down the road with his books in a sack. The laird's cousin slept sound in the best bed and never knew what had been kept from him. Mags swore the stars saw nothing that night, and I believe her, for it was her lamp and her curtain and her own dark heart that did the hiding. Now, who's for the cake?