Fine line black script tattoo reading Don't dream your life live your dream along the inside of a forearm, with a hand resting on white fabric.

Script quote on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A forearm rests on a white fluffy surface, with a hand and pink painted nails visible at the top of the frame. The tattoo is a handwritten-style script quote in thin, dark linework, running diagonally down the forearm across two lines. The ink is dark and sharp against pale skin, and the photo is framed closely on the arm.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Quote Handwriting Text

Find an artist for this

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

The train to Newcastle leaves at twenty past six, and your mam has already ironed the blue blouse you swore you would never wear to an interview. She stands in the back doorway with her arms folded, the way she stood the morning your dad went down the Ashdale shaft for the last time, and she says nothing about the fare. You pretend not to notice the envelope tucked inside your coat, the one with the pound notes she has been saving in a Quality Street tin since Easter.

Keep reading

The village has one road in and one road out, and everyone on Hollin Row knows which one you have been looking at since you were nine. Mr Pryce from number four says a girl from here ends up stacking shelves at the Co-op or marrying a lad from the pension office in Barnsley. You have heard it so often the words have worn smooth, like the step outside the chapel. Still you carry the sketchbook everywhere, the one with the lighthouse you have never seen and the horses you have only seen in the Sunday supplements.

Your dad left a note once, when you were small, folded into your lunch tin. He had copied it out of a calendar in the lamp room, in careful joined-up writing that leaned forward as if it were in a hurry. You found it again years later, pressed flat in the lining of his helmet. It was the only thing he ever wrote that wasn't a shift sheet, and you have never once shown it to your mam.

At the top of the lane you turn back. She has not moved from the step. You lift the sketchbook above your head so she can see it, and she lifts her hand in return, and on the back of the ticket in your pocket, in her looping hand, is the thing she wrote while you were asleep: go on, love, and live it.