Close-up photo of the words Fairest of them all in black cursive script across the upper chest, with the first letter F in a larger flourished style.

Fairest of them all script on collarbone

Lettering · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A photograph of a black script tattoo reading Fairest of them all, running diagonally across the upper chest near the collarbone. The capital F has a large looping flourish, and the rest of the lettering is smaller and more compact, with clean, even linework. The ink is dark against warm skin tones, and the phone photo has a yellow cast with hair visible at the right edge.

Lettering Chest Script Quote Text

Find an artist for this

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

Edith Carrow had kept Seaview House on Marine Parade for thirty-one years, and in all that time she had never let the hall mirror be used for anything but checking a hat. It hung between the coat pegs, its silver gone grey at the corners, and the lodgers knew better than to ask it questions. On the first wet Tuesday of September, young Mr Halloran from the photographic works came down the stairs with his collar undone and stopped in front of it, grinning.

Keep reading

"Go on then, Mrs Carrow. Who's the fairest of them all?" He said it to be funny, the way men said things near the end of the season when the money ran short. Edith was counting spoons on the sideboard and did not look up. "The tide," she said, "and it's out. Mind the step."

He laughed and went out into the rain, and the glass kept its counsel as it always had. That night Edith lay awake listening to the sea drag back over the shingle, and she thought of her sister Ruth, who had stood in that same hall at sixteen, fierce and hopeful, asking the glass the very same thing before she ran off to Blackpool with a fiddler from the pier. Ruth had never written. Edith had never once asked the mirror where she might be.

In the morning the hall was cold and clean. Edith wiped the glass with vinegar and a folded copy of the Gazette, and the face that looked back was only her own, tired and sure of itself, which was the answer she had always preferred. She hung her shawl on the peg beside it and went to light the range.