Script lettering on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a forearm with a single line of cursive script tattooed across it, the phrase beginning Daughter of and the final word partly unclear. The letters are thin, even black linework with little shading, and the skin tone is warm with soft natural light. The lettering sits near the wrist and fills the width of the forearm, with a lace top, denim and sandals visible at the edge of the frame.

Lettering Fine line Forearm Script Word Phrase Cursive

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nell had written the words on the back of her dance card twice before the band struck up, once in pencil and once in ink, and both times the loop of the D came out wrong. Her mother's hand had been all loops, she'd been told. Nell's was narrower, the hand of a girl taught at a convent school in Margate that prized neatness over feeling.

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Across the Pier Pavilion the ballroom was a fog of cigarette smoke and brilliantine. Frank Odell, who ran the bandstand and the bar and most of the gossip between them, leaned on the rail beside her and read the card upside down. "Daughter of a what?" he said. "Lighthouse keeper, I'd guess, the way you're gripping that pencil."

"My father sailed out of this harbour in March," she said. "The Gull Mary. Nobody's said she's gone down. Nobody's said she's come home either. So I thought I'd write it down, who I am, in case the sea wants reminding."

Frank took the pencil from her, studied the half-formed letters, and handed it back. "Then finish it properly."

She bent over the card. The band swung into a waltz, the floor shook, and the last word ran off the edge of the card before she could finish it. Nell folded the card into her glove, ink still damp against her palm, and let Frank lead her out onto the boards. Beyond the windows the tide kept up its low talk against the piles, and the unfinished word stayed where she had left it.