Close-up of a fine line black script tattoo of the word soul on a forearm, with a small dot over the letter o.

Soul script on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows the word soul in a thin, flowing cursive script in black ink. The linework is even and fine, with the letters joined in one continuous stroke and a small open loop at the o. The image is a close, warm-toned photograph of the skin with the lettering centred against a plain background.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Word Script Lettering

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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

The cable came off the drum in the grey hours, and the old mate Ransome told you never to look at the water while it ran. "Keep your eyes on the line, lad." You watched the copper-sheathed rope slide over the stern sheave, one unbroken run, because every splice was a place the signal could slip away into the deep. Thirty-one days out from Valentia, and not once did it part under you.

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Between watches you wrote letters you never posted, in the back of your notebook, in the joined-up hand your mother had drilled into you. The damp made the ink bleed, so you pressed hard. One night Ransome leaned over your shoulder and asked what the word was that you kept drawing at the foot of each page, looping the o like a small knot. You said it was the thing you were trying to keep whole. He said that was the cable's job too, and laughed, and you didn't.

On the twenty-sixth day a kink formed at the bow and the drum jammed with a noise like a struck bell. Men shouted. You were nearest the brake, so you got your hands into the bight where the rope doubled back and held it steady while the engineers freed the wheel. Your palms stung for a week. Nobody was lost, and the log recorded only a minor fault, rectified.

When the line finally sang at the Newfoundland end, the clerk tapped a single word to London, the first clear message across that cold water, and it was nothing grand. It was "Received." Ransome handed you the flimsy with the hour pencilled on it. You folded it into the notebook behind the last page, where the word was still drawn small and joined in one stroke, and you carried it with you for the rest of your days.