Black fine line script lettering tattooed across the upper back between the shoulder blades of a woman with her hair in a bun, seen from behind in bed.

Fine script lettering across upper back

Fine line · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A woman seen from behind, with her hair tied up, shows a small line of black cursive script across the upper back between the shoulder blades. The linework is thin and even with no shading, and the ink is dark against sun-toned skin. The plain background and white bedding keep the focus on the tattoo.

Fine line Lettering Back Script Lettering Word Upper back

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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

Your father taught you letters before he taught you the rides, and by the time the fair reached the seaside town of Pellow Bay you could paint a straight line freehand on the side of a caravan without thinking. The showman paid you in cigarettes and hot pies. He liked that you did not talk while you worked, and he liked the hand, small and steady, that you wrote with.

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The commission came on a wet Tuesday. A woman with a ticket stub folded in her glove wanted a sign for the Hall of Mirrors, and she wanted it in a script she called something from a letter, not a shop. You sat on an upturned crate and wrote it out four times on brown paper, lifting the brush so each stroke tapered to a hair. She took the fourth one, folded it twice, and pressed it into your palm with a coin still warm from her pocket.

The sign went up above the mirror maze on Saturday. You stood in the queue with your hands in your pockets and watched people stop beneath it, read it aloud under their breath, then laugh or go quiet. A boy tried to copy the words onto his forearm with a biro and got the loops wrong. Nobody asked who had painted it, and you were glad of that.

That night the generators were killed early and the fair went dark except for the lamps inside the mirror hall. You walked its length, past your own reflection breaking into a hundred pieces, and at the far end the letters came back to you the right way round, one stroke at a time, as though they had always belonged to whoever happened to be looking. You packed your brushes before dawn.