Black and grey photo of a small Let it be script lettering tattoo on the back of a neck, with the wearer's face not shown.

Let it be script on the neck

Lettering · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

The photo shows the back of a person's neck with the words Let it be written in a small, flowing script tattoo. The linework is smooth and dark, with the lettering filled in solidly and no shading around it. The image is black and white, and the tattoo sits centrally against pale skin, with dark hair above and a knitted jumper at the bottom of the frame.

Lettering Neck Let it be Script Word

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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 lamp has been sulking since October, and the relief boat is three days late for weather nobody on the island seems to remember. Each evening you climb the iron stairs with a tin of paraffin under one arm and your father's logbook under the other, counting the hundred and thirty-seven steps out of habit rather than need. The glass is clouded with salt. You wipe it with a rag that still smells of sheep dip, and the beam stutters across the water like someone clearing their throat before a eulogy.

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Mrs Harrod from the cottage below sends up a note most nights, folded into a neat square and tucked under the door, always the same three words in her looping hand: Let it be. For a week you took them as advice about the wick, a hint to stop fussing with it. Then the fog came in thick as wool, and you read them again on the stairs and understood she meant the boats were not yours to bring home.

On the third night the wick catches clean and the beam swings out true. You don't sleep. You sit on the gallery with your back to the warm brass and watch a trawler's own lamp wander toward the harbour mouth, uncertain, then sure. Every instinct says to climb down and flash the signal your father taught you. You stay put. The boat finds the gap in the rocks without you, and the water goes quiet beneath it.

In the morning there is a fresh square of paper on the step. This time there is no greeting, only a pencilled line: Your father would have done the same. You fold it into the logbook at the page for that date, and for the first time in months the tin of paraffin stays where it is.