Back of a woman with red hair and a floral top, showing a fine line script tattoo reading forever young across the upper back below the neck.

Forever young script on upper back

Fine line · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A photograph from behind of a person with long red hair and a floral top, showing the phrase forever young in a thin, flowing script across the upper back below the neck. The linework is slender and even, in dark ink that reads as black or grey on the skin. The warm, softly blurred background keeps the focus on the lettering and the bare skin around it.

Fine line Lettering Back Text Quote Script

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 function room at the Crown smells of carpet cleaner and warm sausage rolls, and the sticker on your lapel has your name spelled wrong, which feels about right. You stand by the trestle table with a plastic cup of something pink and watch the door. Gemma Tolley is not coming. Dawn from the year above told you so twice, in case you hadn't heard the first time, and then she wandered off to find the lad who used to sell dog-eared lighters behind the bike sheds.

Keep reading

The yearbook is in your handbag, though you can't remember deciding to bring it. Page forty-one. Under your photograph, squinting into a sun that was never really there, someone has written in blue biro: Forever young, you daft cow. Don't let them turn you into a Tuesday. G x. You laughed at the time. You thought it was the sort of thing people wrote when they had nothing better to say, and you told her so the next day in geography, and she pushed you off your chair.

Now the ink has gone the colour of weak tea and the corners are soft from twenty-six years in a bag. You smooth the page flat on the table. Across the room a man in a blazer is explaining his allotment to somebody who isn't listening, and nobody has yet mentioned the thing you came to hear, which is whether Gemma moved to Leeds or Lincoln, and whether she ever got tired of being the one who remembered everything.

You take a biro from the cardboard pen tray and, beneath your misspelled name, write hers, then the year, then one line: still daft, still here. You leave the yearbook open at the page and walk out before anyone can ask what you were doing.