Close photo of a line of black cursive script tattoo running up a man's forearm, with a dark wristwatch and green top visible.

Script quote on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A photograph of a man's forearm with a line of black cursive script running diagonally up the arm. The lettering has thin, even linework in solid black ink with no visible shading. The man wears a dark wristwatch, a green top and dark jeans, against a softly lit, bright background.

Lettering Forearm Script Quote Lettering Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The sign painter's brush is the only thing on the lot that never rattles. You have been at it since the fair pulled into the rec ground outside Ashby, lettering the name of the Big Wheel across a caravan panel in gold leaf, and the gaffer has already told you twice to stop fussing over the serifs. Nobody on the ground cares about serifs. The children care about lights, the lads care about the girl on the waltzers, and nobody at all reads the signs until the lights go out.

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On the last night a girl of about nine comes to your booth clutching a biscuit tin of coppers. She wants something written on her wrist, something she can keep. You tell her marker washes off. She says she knows. So you take a ticket stub, turn it over, and write in the careful copperplate you learned from an old chart in Leeds: Something to do, to love, to hope for. She reads it slowly, lips moving, then looks up and asks which bit is the hope.

You open your mouth to answer and find you have nothing ready. Doing and loving you can see from the ground. Hope is the part you only find out about after the wheel has gone round a few times and you are still standing there. You tell her that, more or less, and she nods as if you have confirmed a price. She tucks the stub into her cardigan pocket and runs off towards the dodgems before her mum can shout.

In the morning the field is churned to mud and the trucks are grinding out through the gate. You climb onto the step of the paint van with your brush case under your arm. Somewhere in a town you have not reached yet, a child is probably reading a line she does not understand. You open the case, pull out the finest sable, and begin again on a blank board, the first letter slow and even.