Fine white ink script reading Still I Rise across the wrist, shown as a lettering piece on pale skin.

Still I Rise script on a wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a wrist with the words Still I Rise tattooed in a flowing script. The linework is fine and even, and the letters are rendered in white or very light ink that shows as a raised, pale pattern against the skin. The text runs horizontally across the centre of the frame, with the surrounding skin softly lit and out of focus at the edges.

Lettering Fine line Forearm Script Word Phrase Wrist

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Tom, the beck froze solid on Tuesday, right up to the stone bridge, so Ned had to break a hole in it with the spade before the ewes could drink. Your grandad would have laughed at me doing it in my good coat. I laughed too, once my hands had stopped shaking.

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The bank man rang again. He says the figures don't add up for another winter, and he says it kindly, the way they do when they've already decided. I told him the figures never added up in 1947 either, and we were still here in 1948 with half the roof off and a litter of pups in the bread bin. I didn't mention the hay, or how the lambs come out steaming in the dark. Those aren't figures.

Ned has been mending the gate on the top field with wire he found in the back of the Land Rover. It holds, which is more than I can say for most things this year. He keeps talking about spring as if spring were a person coming up the lane with a cheque in its pocket. I've decided I like him for it.

There's frost on every strand of the fence this morning, white as chalk, a cap on every post. I walked the boundary before the light came up and the whole field looked like a page nobody had written on yet. The dog ran across it and left a line of dark prints, and by dinner the sun had softened them back to nothing. Nothing goes properly out of this place. It just goes under for a while, and then it comes up again, as sure as the lambs.