Still I Rise script on the wrist
Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A close photograph of a small black script tattoo reading Still I Rise, sitting across the inner wrist. The lettering uses a smooth, slightly slanted monoline with solid black ink and no shading. The image is in black and white, with the skin tone and soft lighting leaving the words as the clear focal point.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The band at the Winter Palais finished the foxtrot and the floor emptied the way it always did, couples peeling off to the edges while you stayed on the bench by the radiator with your hands folded in your lap. Mr Tierney from the Co-op had asked Irene Bell instead, and Irene had glanced back at you over his shoulder with something like pity, which was worse than the laughing.
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Your aunt had told you at tea that a girl with your chin would be lucky to get a dance at all. That afternoon you had written a line on the back of a cinema ticket in the careful, slanting hand the nuns had beaten into you, and tucked it into your glove. Still I rise, it said. At the time it had sounded to you like a hymn for people who had already fallen over.
When the saxophone started up again, slow and wavering, you stood before you could think better of it. You crossed the sprung boards and held out your hand to the young man by the doors who had been turning his cap in his fists all evening. He blinked at you as if you had asked for his wallet. Then he took your hand, carefully, the way you might lift something that could still spill, and you walked him onto the floor.
Later, when the lights came up and everyone squinted at one another like sleepers, you found the ticket still in your glove, the ink smudged where your palm had sweated through it. You didn't throw it away. You pressed it flat under the cloakroom lamp and read the line once more, and it was no longer a hymn, only a plain sentence that had turned out to be true.
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