Fine line pale script tattoo across the back of a hand, reading I must not tell lies, with black stiletto nails resting on a wooden table.

Fine line script quote on the back of a hand

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A hand rests flat on a wooden surface with long black stiletto nails. Across the back of the hand runs a handwritten-style script in thin, pale linework that reads I must not tell lies. The ink is light against the skin, with no shading or colour visible, and the image is framed close with warm lighting.

Fine line Lettering Hand Script Quote Text Hand Nail

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 pen had gone thin with use, so Samuel had to press hard enough to hurt, and the ink came out the colour of weak tea. Miss Quarrie stood over his desk in the empty Hollin Lane schoolroom while the stove ticked down, her cardigan buttoned to the throat. She watched the letters crawl across the back of his hand rather than the page. "Lines are for exercise books," she said. "The hand is where you keep what you mean." He had been set to write I must not tell lies a hundred times, and he had started on his skin because the paper was needed for sums in the morning.

Keep reading

The window in the cloakroom had gone the week before, a cricket ball through the frosted pane, and Samuel had told the headmaster the wind did it. Everyone knew the wind had not. Miss Quarrie had kept the register for thirty-one years and could tell a story from a fib by the way a child's shoulders sat, and she had let him say it twice before she sent him back to his desk with the pen. She told herself it was about the glass. It was not really about the glass. Years ago she had said nothing when a tin of Christmas coins went missing from the staffroom, and a Pickering girl had been sent home in disgrace for it, and Miss Quarrie had never once been asked to explain herself.

At half past five she came back for her gloves and found the nib had torn the paper through in places, and the sentence ran down the last page in a hand that was not neat at all. Beneath the hundredth line, pressed deep into the wood of the desk where no one would think to look, Samuel had scratched the true thing: I threw it. She sat down on the cold bench and did not take off her gloves. Outside, the wind got into the broken pane and sang.