Black and white photo of a fine line tattoo of the word hallelujah in lowercase typewriter-style lettering on the inner forearm.

Small hallelujah lettering on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small tattoo of the lowercase word hallelujah in a typewriter-style typeface sits on the inner forearm, photographed against a plain white background. The linework is thin and crisp, with the letters filled in solid black and little or no visible shading. The image is monochrome and the word sits slightly off centre along the arm, leaving plenty of clear skin around it.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Word Typewriter font Lettering

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the step, it's loose, same as everything else in this house. Sit yourself by the stove where it can reach you, and I'll tell you about the typewriter on the sideboard, the one with the dent in its carriage. Ada Pryce bought it off a travelling clerk in the winter the ewes came down with foot rot, and she paid him in eggs and a ham she could ill spare.

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She typed letters for the whole valley after that. Vet's bills, chapel notices, the wills nobody read until they were needed. The key for the h stuck, so she learned to strike it twice and blow the dust off before she moved on. Then came the night of the big snow, when the lamb pen flooded and the men were three miles off at the sale in Brampton with the lorry axle snapped. Ada had nobody but the dog and a dozen ewes straining in the straw.

She sat at that machine with the lamp hissing and her coat over her shoulders, and she typed one word on a strip of good paper, lowercase, because capitals used up the ribbon too fast. Hallelujah, letter by letter, the stuck h striking twice. Then she pinned the strip to the gatepost where the lamp could catch it, and she went back out into the straw with her sleeves rolled to the elbow.

Come morning, nine lambs were up and bawling, and the tenth was a stillborn she buried under the apple tree. The men came up the lane at first light and read the paper before they read anything else. The strip is still in the drawer under the ledgers, gone the colour of weak tea, and the word is still on it, small and plain and perfectly sure of itself. Ada never did say whether she meant it for God or for the lambs, and I've never had the nerve to ask.