Black script lettering on the side of the ribs reads 'She who leaves a trail of glitter is never forgotten'.

Glitter quote lettering on ribs

Lettering · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a quote tattooed along the side of the ribs, reading 'She who leaves a trail of glitter is never forgotten' in mixed cursive and print lettering. The large word 'glitter' is the boldest element, with the rest of the text in smaller, finer strokes. The ink is black on pale skin, with a soft background of a room and a hand at the top edge of the frame.

Lettering Ribs Quote Script Word

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 fair left Harrow Common the same way it always did, in the grey before the milkmen, the caravans rolling out one behind another with their lamps still lit. Nobody counted them. Old Mab Corrigan, who kept the coconut shy, swore the last wagon was always the one with the dancing girl in it, though nobody could say who had seen her climb aboard.

Keep reading

Tilly Vane danced at the end of every show with a tambourine full of gold and silver flake. She threw it up at the lights and let it settle on the crowd, on the sawdust, on the shoulders of the farmers' sons who had paid a shilling to watch. By the time the tent came down there was glitter in the seams of the canvas and in the hair of the children who had run after the wagons. The ringmaster hated it. He swept the ground three times a night and still it turned up in his boots in Lancaster and Leeds.

The winter Tilly stopped dancing, the glitter stopped too, and the fair began to lose its people. A boy called Eli Stott, who had wandered off from his mother in Tewkesbury, could not find the gate back to the road. He followed a single silver speck across a ploughed field, then another on a stile, then a shine on a puddle, until he came out at the back of the big top, where the lamps were lit and the ringmaster was crying into a handkerchief.

Years later the farmers still tell it plainly. Every harvest, when the fair has gone, there is a thread of light along the hedgerows where the wagons passed. Nobody sweeps it up. Children follow it home, and whoever it leads them to, it is always to someone who remembers the girl who danced.