Red and orange feather quill tattoo on the ribs, with black cursive script reading I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.

Feather quill with script quote on ribs

Lettering · Ribs · Mixed · Photo

A red and orange feather with a fine quill tip sits across the side of the torso, shaded with soft gradients along its barbs. Black cursive script runs beneath it in two lines, reading I solemnly swear that I am up to no good, with the quill's tip curving into the end of the text. The feather is coloured while the lettering is in black ink, and the skin around them is smooth and evenly lit.

Lettering Realism Ribs Feather Quill 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

The bandleader keeps his ledger under the piano lid, and tonight the lid is open because the trumpet player is tuning up with his back to the room. You lift the quill from the inkwell with two fingers, its red barbs bright against the brass lamp, and write a name in the margin of the waltz competition sheet. Not your name. Wilf's. He is up on the balcony pretending to be interested in the chandelier, and he will be furious, and he will be dancing with you by the end of the night regardless.

Keep reading

The ink is still wet when Mrs Pryce comes down the staircase in her green satin, reading glasses swinging on a chain. She stops at the foot of the stairs and looks straight at you. You have the quill behind your back and a face like a choirboy. She says nothing. She holds out her hand, palm up, the way she does when a girl has been sneaking cigarettes in the ladies' cloakroom.

You give her the feather. She runs her thumb along the barbs, bends over the sheet, and adds a line beneath yours in a looping hand: the cup goes to whoever can keep up with the two of you on the last chorus.

The band starts a slow foxtrot. Wilf comes down the stairs two at a time, shaking his head, and holds out his arm. Somewhere behind the stage the trumpet hits a sour note and the whole hall laughs. You take his arm, and the quill, still warm from your fingers, goes back in its pot where it belongs, its tip catching the light as the floor fills up.