Black cursive lettering tattoo reading we see things they'll never see along the inner forearm, in a fine line lettering style.

Script quote along a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a forearm with a single line of black cursive script reading we see things they'll never see. The letters are drawn with fine, fluid strokes, with slightly heavier pressure on some of the longer letters and a gentle slant to the right. The ink is a dark, uniform black against pale skin, and the soft, light-coloured fabric behind the arm keeps the composition clean and simple.

Lettering Fine line Forearm Script Quote Word Handwriting

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Come closer, the lot of you, before the rain gets into the sugar. Fenwick's stall is the one with the green tarpaulin, and if you stand under the awning you'll hear the gulls complaining about the fish, which is what they do when the weather turns. I've been telling this to the stallholders since before some of you were born, and not one of them listened until the wet came down on the cobbles like it has tonight.

Keep reading

There was a girl called Hetty Marr who sold thread and buttons from a barrow at this end of the market, back when the fish stalls were still by the canal. She could not read, but she could tell you the colour of a man's lie from across the square. Every morning she watched the carriages come in from the hill houses, and every evening she sat on her upturned crate and told the pigeons what she'd seen. The pigeons never repeated a word of it. That was the trouble with pigeons, she said.

One wet afternoon a clerk came down from the bank with a letter he couldn't finish. He asked Hetty to write the last line for him, because his hand shook, and she said she would if he paid her in mutton. He leaned over her barrow and said, "Tell her we see things they'll never see." Hetty pressed her pencil down hard on the longer letters, the way you'd press a seal into wax, and the line ran across the paper like a swallow skimming a pond.

The clerk never came back for the letter. Hetty kept it folded in her apron for forty years, and when she died they found it with the buttons, and nobody in the market could say who it was meant for. I have my own guess. Now mind the puddle by the gate, and somebody fetch me a cup of something hot.