Black and grey photo of a fine line script tattoo reading saved by grace along the inner forearm, with the hand raised above it.

Saved by grace script on forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a forearm with the hand raised and bent at the wrist, and a ring on one finger. The tattoo is a thin, single-line cursive script reading saved by grace, running diagonally up the inner forearm near the wrist. The ink is crisp and dark against the pale skin, and the plain background keeps the focus on the lettering.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Hand Ring

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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

Margaret Doyle had come to the reunion for the sausage rolls and to be able to say she had come, and by half past eight she had already found the coat rack, the raffle table and the one man from 4B who still called her Maggie Dyer. What she had not planned for was Jen Ashby's handwriting.

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Jen was across the hall, signing the guest book with a biro that had already run dry twice. Margaret knew the loops before she could read them: the long tail on the g, the e leaning forward as if it had somewhere to be. Thirty-one years since the last note passed under a desk in Miss Harker's English room, and the same hand was still saying things in curves.

They had not been friends at the end. There had been a borrowed Walkman, then a rumour about a boy called Stuart that grew larger than either of them. Margaret had written one unkind note and folded it into a paper swan. Jen had sent it back unopened, with a single line tucked inside the wings: Some things are kinder left unsaid.

Now Jen crossed the room with two plastic cups of warm wine. "You kept your fringe," she said. "I'm impressed." She nodded at the book on the table between them. "Go on, then. Your name's the only one I can't find." Margaret took the biro, found the blank line, and wrote her name in the same loose, leaning hand she had practised at fourteen, and when she looked up Jen was already smiling, as if she had known all along which way the letters would go.