Small black lettering in a typewriter-style font reading just breathe on the inner wrist of a raised hand, with a beaded bracelet and city buildings behind.

Just breathe lettering on the inner wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a hand raised in front of a blurred Parisian street, with dark nail polish and a black beaded bracelet on the wrist. The tattoo is the words just breathe in small, fine black lettering with a typewriter-style serif face, placed on the inner wrist. The ink is solid black and the composition keeps the wrist sharp against the soft background of stone façades and trees.

Lettering Forearm Quote Word Text Wrist Hand

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 roof gives a sound like a door shutting in another house, and the dust settles over your lamp until the flame is only a blue bead. Somewhere beyond the fall, Dai Morrow is knocking steel with a spanner, tap, pause, tap, the way the two of you once knocked on the pithead gates when you were boys. You answer with your own tapping. It is all the language the seam has left you.

Keep reading

The air is going thick. You feel it sitting heavy under your ribs and you want to gulp at it, the way a man gulps at a cup when he's been run ragged. But the words come back to you as they were typed, in neat black capitals on the back of a wage slip that Miss Eluned Vaughan slid across the counter after the last fall, when your mother had stood in the office for an hour without speaking. Her typewriter had clattered like hail on the tin roof. Only one line, no signature. Stop trying to get it. Let it come to you.

So you do. Slow in, slow out. You count to four and let the dark hold still between breaths. The tapping stops, and for a long moment there is nothing but your heart and the drip of water somewhere in the rock. Then it starts again, nearer, and a voice you would know through a wall says your name like a swear word.

When the gap finally opens, a thread of cold air slides through the pipe. It smells of rain on slate and of nothing that has been underground for years. You take it in, slowly, the way the slip told you to, and keep the crumpled paper pressed flat in your pocket as the lamps come bobbing towards you.