Black fine line script tattoo reading so it goes across the forearm, with a white pillow and blue flowers in the soft background.

So it goes script on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a handwritten script tattoo reading so it goes across the inner forearm. The lettering is drawn in thin, even black linework with a slightly slanted, cursive style. The skin is pale and evenly lit, with a striped pillow and blue flowers softly out of focus behind the arm.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Quote Text Handwriting

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the step, the stove wants feeding, and you'll sit where the draught can't find you. Right. The snow came over the ridge at noon and the coach road closed behind it, so you're mine tonight, and I'll tell you about the postmistress at Hollin Cross who wrote a letter every morning and never once sent it.

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She wrote in a slanted hand, fast, the way you write when the kettle is about to boil over. Her brother had gone down the valley with the mill owner's tallyman in the autumn and not come back up, and the letters were for him, addressed to the Ashby lodging house where he'd last been seen. Each night she pinned them to the board behind the counter. Each morning the lodging house sent back nothing but a shake of the head. The ink faded to grey, then to nothing, and still she wrote.

The winter the bridge went, a carter came in stamping and said he had seen a man in the drifts above the cutting, a man with a lantern that would not light. The postmistress put down her pen. She walked out in her nightdress and found no one, only the marks of a boot going into the white and not coming out. She came back in, took down every letter from the board, and read them aloud to the fire, one by one. When she reached the last she laughed, said so it goes, and folded it into her apron.

Mind, that's not the ending. The ending is that she sent them all in spring, when the road opened, and the tallyman's widow wrote back to say he had never once been to Ashby. Here, have the last of the cider. So it goes.