Fine line black script lettering tattooed along a finger, on a hand with white-tipped nails against a pink leopard print background.

Script word tattoo on a finger

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a single finger bearing a thin black cursive word tattoo that runs along its length. The linework is fine and even, with the letters sitting in a flowing handwritten style and a small looped heart-like shape within the lettering. The ink is solid black on pale skin, and the blurred pink and dark leopard print behind the hand draws attention to the finger.

Fine line Lettering Hand Script Word Finger Handwriting Heart

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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

Now sit still and let me get the kettle on, because this one takes a proper cup of tea to tell. It's about the winter of fifty-three in Hebden, when the mill chimneys still smoked like they meant it, and Nell Garside worked the post counter at the end of Bridge Street.

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Nell had a fountain pen her father gave her for passing the scholarship, and she used it for everything: the ration returns, the telegrams, the little notes she tucked into the postman's bag when she was bored. One Tuesday a lad called Walter Ibbotson came in with a single envelope for his mother in Keighley and stood there turning his cap round and round until the queue behind him started to grumble. He said he was going for a sailor on the Thursday train. He said he didn't know how to write the word that would bring him home again, so would she write it for him.

She took his pen, which was a cheap thing that skipped, and wrote promise across the back of the envelope in her looping hand. Because she was nineteen and foolish, she drew a small heart in the middle of it, tucked where the m and the i met, like a pressed flower between the pages of a hymnal. Walter folded it into his breast pocket and went out into the rain without looking back, which I'm told is the only proper way to leave a post office.

Years later the envelope came back to her in a biscuit tin with his medals, soft as an old handkerchief, the ink gone grey from being carried so long. Nobody ever told her where he'd been. She kept the tin on the windowsill and dusted it every Thursday, same as she'd dusted the counter, and that's how she knew he was still out there somewhere, still keeping hold of it.