Black script lettering reading Peace, Love, Unity and Respect on the inside of a forearm, with a person in a green top and denim shorts behind.

Peace, Love, Unity, Respect lettering on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph shows a forearm with four stacked words in black script: Peace, Love, Unity and Respect. The lettering has smooth, even linework with some variation in line weight, and the ink appears as a single dark grey-black tone. The arm is held up from below against a plain outdoor ground, with a crowd and colourful beaded bracelets in the frame.

Lettering Forearm Peace Love Script Word

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

Sit yourself down by the stove, for the wind's at the glass and you'll not be going back to Skerra tonight. Now you'll be wanting to know what's painted on the lamp room door, the four black words in the old hand, and I'll tell you, though my grandmother told it slower and with more swearing.

Keep reading

Two crews fished out of Skerra when I was a boy, the Tallows and the Greigs, and they had not exchanged a civil word since a net was cut in the spring of the big storm. Every fair morning the two boats went out past the light, and every evening they came back, and every evening the keeper watched them not look at one another across the harbour mouth. Nobody had asked the keeper to do anything about it. Nobody asked the keeper for much at all.

So one winter Mattie Rowe, who kept the light then and had hands like boiled cod, took a tin of lamp-black and a brush and painted four words on the door, one under the other, in letters as neat as a schoolmaster's. Peace. Love. Unity. Respect. He painted them so the Tallows had to read them climbing the rock stairs for oil, and the Greigs had to read them coming down with the rent.

Nobody knows which word did the work. My grandmother swore it was Respect, because it was the last one and a man reads the last thing he sees. But I've come to think the door did nothing at all, except sit there every day, patient as the tide, until somebody had to be the first to walk under it. That was young Ellen Greig, carrying a loaf up to the Tallow widow, and that was the end of the net business, though not the end of the grumbling.

The paint's near gone now. You can still make out the R and the P if the light's low, and the boats still come in past them.