Black handwritten script lyric tattoo across the forearm, reading all alone just the beat inside my soul and take me home where my dreams are made of gold.

Song lyric script on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two lines of cursive script run diagonally across a forearm, with the lower line starting larger at the bottom left and the upper line sitting smaller towards the top right. The linework is fine and even in black ink, with soft shading where the letters meet the skin. The photograph is taken in dim light against a dark background, so the skin tone and contrast are muted.

Lettering Fine line Forearm Lyric Script Quote Word Handwriting

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The apples had been ripe a week before Mabel Crane noticed the gate was still open from the night before. Down the long rows the windfalls lay gold in the grass, and she counted them the way her mother had, touching each one with the toe of her boot. Her son had not come home for three summers. The letter that came in July said only that he was playing drums in a city where nobody knew his name, and that the rent had gone up.

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She did not answer it. Instead she dragged the ladder from the barn and climbed the old Russet tree that had never once given her a bad crop. Up there the wind carried the sound of the Hallam road, a lorry grinding through its gears, and under that, faint as a knuckle on a door, a rhythm she could not name. She had told him as a boy that a beat was only the heart keeping an appointment. He had laughed and drummed on the kitchen table until the cups rang.

On the Saturday a van stopped at the lane end and a man got out with a rucksack on his back and a snare case strapped beneath it. He walked the rows slowly, stopping to lift apples and turn them over in his palm. Mabel did not call out. She waited at the foot of the ladder with her hands in her apron until he looked up.

'The gate was open,' he said. 'I thought you'd forgotten to shut it.' 'I never forget a gate,' she said, and held out a windfall still warm from the sun. He took it and bit it, and the juice ran down his wrist. Behind them the orchard went on letting its fruit go into the grass, one soft knock after another, until neither of them could tell it from a drum.