Black and white photo of a bare back with a fine line cross tattoo down the spine and fine script across the upper back and arms.

Cross and script tattoos on a back

Fine line · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a woman seen from behind, with short dark hair and bare shoulders and back. A thin black cross runs down the spine, with fine script across the upper back and smaller lettering and marks on both upper arms and one hand. The linework is delicate and the composition is centred on the back, with the subject's hands in the front pockets of dark jeans.

Fine line Lettering Back Upper arm Forearm Hand Cross Script Quote Feather

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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 last number 9 leaves the depot at twenty to one, and by the time it reaches Mill Lane the windows have fogged so thoroughly that the city outside is only a smear of sodium orange. I have driven nights for eleven years. I know which traffic lights stick, which corner the drunks hold for, and which shelter on Hatton Road still has its glass. I do not usually know the passengers, and I like it that way.

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That Tuesday there was one at the back, a young woman with a rucksack on her knees and her hair cut short enough to show the nape of her neck. She rode past the stop where she should have got off, then rang the bell at the crossroads by St Anne's, where the church has been dark since the roof came in. When the doors folded open she stepped down without looking back. On seat fourteen, still damp, lay a grey feather the length of my hand.

I should have left it for the cleaners. Instead I put it in the visor above the windscreen, between the timetable and a photograph of my daughter at seven, and I told myself it was only so the lost property girls would find it in the morning. For four nights the feather stayed where I put it. On the fifth I stopped at the crossroads for a slow count of ten, watching the empty road run in both directions, and nobody rang the bell.

The next night the feather was gone from the visor, and in its place was a ticket for a single journey, punched at the crossroads, with nothing written on it. I still stop there. Some nights the road is only a road, and some nights I sit with the engine idling and the doors shut, waiting for someone to come out of the dark and climb aboard.