Small black script tattoo reading let it be, in fine line lettering, on the back of a person's neck below the hairline.

Let it be script on the back of the neck

Lettering · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph shows the back of a person's neck with the words let it be written in a thin black cursive script. The linework is fine and even, with a flowing tail extending from the lettering on both sides. The tattoo is shown in black ink on a light skin tone against a plain, warmly lit background, with hair falling at the top of the frame.

Lettering Fine line Neck Let it be 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

Brother Anaxo, the Nile has not come to our fields this year, but the rain from the hills did, and it sat in the olive terraces for nine days like a guest who refuses to leave. Father wants the ditches dug before autumn ploughing. He has hired four men from the salt works and stands at the wall each morning with his stick, counting buckets. I told him what Grandmother said the year the goats drowned: let it be. He laughed at me and sent me back to the tally room.

Keep reading

Yesterday I went down to the lowest terrace alone. The water had gone brown and still, and where it pooled the mud had settled into a grey skin so fine it held the print of a heron's foot. The old fig, which Father swore would die, had put out leaves the colour of new bronze. I sat on the wall with my reed pen and a wax tablet on my knee and wrote nothing for an hour. Flies came and went. A boy from the next farm drove a cart past without looking at me.

When I came back I told Father the men could go home. He shouted for a while, which is his way of agreeing. Then he walked down with me in the evening and stood among the puddles a long time. He said nothing about ditches. He only pressed his thumb into the silt and held it up to the lamp.

Come for the feast of Demeter if the roads are dry, and bring the good ink. I have cut the words over the lintel of the press house in case you think I am inventing them: let it be, the letters running out at the ends into long thin lines like the last of the water. Your sister, Phaidra.