Black script lettering reading Philippians 4.18 on the inner upper arm, with a dark band on the bicep above it.

Philippians 4.18 script on upper arm

Lettering · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a flexed arm with a single line of black script reading Philippians 4.18 sitting on the inner upper arm. The lettering is fine and even with smooth, connected strokes and no visible shading. The warm skin tones and soft grey studio backdrop keep the focus on the tattoo, and the arm is cropped so no face is visible.

Lettering Fine line Upper arm Scripture Bible verse Script Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Tom, the carrier came up the lane on Tuesday with your parcel, and I had to sit down on the step before I could open it. Harkness had brought the cart as far as the stile, then left it there, because the bridle path under Ashcombe Wood has turned to black mud since the thaw and he would not risk the wheels for a parcel of anything less than gold.

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Inside was oranges from Seville, wrapped one by one in tissue, a length of blue cloth fine enough to read through, and a paper twist of cloves that had gone soft with the sea. The whole kitchen smelled of them before I had the string undone. The hens came to the door to see what the fuss was. I counted everything twice, the way you count the eggs, and wrote it on the back of the almanac so you would know I had it all. Received, every item, and more besides, as far as I can tell from the price of oranges in a foreign town.

I have sent something back by Harkness on Monday, though he complained the whole way to the wood. A crock of bramble jelly from the hedge behind the orchard, two beeswax candles from Ruth Pardoe's hives, and a pair of wool socks I knitted in the dark evenings and did not show you. Tell the captain the cloves are for the cook, Tom, not for his own pipe, and tell him I know the difference.

Last night I dropped one clove on the hearth to see if it still caught. It did, with a small blue flame, and the cottage filled with a warmth that smelled like your father's Sundays. I sat by the window with the lamp out and watched the wood go dark, and I thought the smell must be reaching the lane, and maybe as far as the road where Harkness turns the cart for home. Your loving mother, Agnes.