Black lettering tattoo of a four-line quote in a handwritten script across a person's ribs, on skin with an orange garment at the edges.

Four-line quote tattoo along the ribs

Lettering · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo is a four-line passage of text in black ink, set in a mix of handwritten and print-style lettering that runs diagonally across the side of the torso. The letterforms are solid with uneven, slightly feathered edges, and the lines curve and drop as they follow the curve of the body. The image is a close, slightly angled photograph with warm skin tones and a plain background, and the final line runs off the edge of the frame.

Lettering Ribs Quote Text Script Handwriting

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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

The tyre went forty miles past the last petrol station, a flat crack that rolled across the flats and came back off the rock like a door slammed in another county. You sat on the sill of the hire car with the jack across your knees and counted what you had: one bottle of warm water, a phone with no bars, and a spare that turned out to be as flat as the first. Behind you the road ran pale and straight into heat that shook above the asphalt.

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By the second hour the sun had moved and so had your temper. A lorry passed without slowing, its driver lifting two fingers off the wheel as though you were a fence post. Then dust came up from the north, and out of it rattled an old pick-up with one headlight, driven by a woman called Nell Carrow who chewed gum and asked only whether you'd eaten. She took you to Sable Creek, which had one bar of signal, a diner with a broken jukebox, and a garage run by her nephew, who laughed at the tyre and then fixed it in forty minutes.

The canyon you had driven out to see was shut for a rockfall, and you sat on the bonnet eating chips, ready to call the whole trip a waste. Nell tapped a map spread on the counter, where someone had pencilled a faint track running north into the wash. Nobody had ever told you a bad morning might be a doorway, and you looked at that thin line for a long time.

She folded the map into your hand and said the road only looks like it stops. Then she was gone in the dust, and you were turning the car north, the spare rattling in the boot like an old promise.