Close photo of small black script lettering tattooed on the side of a finger, with two hands held together.

Small script lettering on a finger

Lettering · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

Two hands are held together with the fingers linked, and the nearer finger carries a small black script lettering tattoo. The linework is fine and even, with the letters wrapping around the finger. The image is in warm, natural tones with no colour ink, and the background is dark and out of focus.

Lettering Fine line Hand Script Lettering Finger

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 sports hall at Hollins Road has been dressed up with fairy lights and a banner reading Class of 2004, and you have been standing by the squash-ball urn for twenty minutes pretending to study the name badges. Yours says Dan in capitals, printed by someone who clearly distrusted felt-tip. Across the floor Maureen Kelly is leading a conga with a man in a gilet, and nobody has had the heart to tell her the music stopped ages ago.

Keep reading

Then you see Priya by the crisps, and she sees you, and for a second neither of you moves. You both remember the folded notes passed in double Geography, the ones that ended with two crosses and an O because Mr Ashworth had once read a confiscated one aloud, deadpan, and the whole class had lost it. You never threw yours away. It has lived in the lining of three different wallets since, going soft at the folds like an old bus ticket.

She crosses the hall with a paper cup of orange squash and holds up her hand before she says a word. The letters are still there, neat and small, curling round the finger the way they were always meant to. You tell her you kept the note. She tells you she knew you would, because you were the only boy in Set 3 who never once rubbed out his handwriting.

You take out the wallet and unfold the paper on the trestle table between the cups and the sponge cake. The ink has faded to the colour of weak tea. Meet me by the bike sheds, don't be weird. She reads it, laughs, and the room goes quiet enough that you can hear the urn ticking as it cools.