Four-panel collage of black lettering tattoos: Roman numerals on two wrists, an infinity symbol with a moon and stars on the ribs, the word amore with a heart arrow on a wrist, and script love with a

Lettering tattoos on wrists and ribs

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The collage shows four black ink lettering tattoos. The top left panel has two wrists held together on a beach, each marked with the Roman numerals VIII IV XII in a clean serif font, in a black and white photo. The other panels show an infinity loop with the words I love you to the moon and back, decorated with small stars and a crescent moon, alongside the word amore with a small heart-tipped arrow on a wrist, and a large script love with a scripture reference in fine script along the ribs.

Lettering Forearm Ribs Roman numeral Infinity symbol Moon Star Heart Arrow Love Script Scripture Wrist Beach

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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

You are already late for the ferry when the tide table slips from your fingers and lands face down in the rockpool beside the chapel steps. Blue ink bleeds across the printed columns. Eight, four, twelve: the hours your grandmother chalked on the harbour wall so the boats could read the time from her hand. You fish the paper out, dripping, and find the sea has taken the moon's column entirely, so you guess at the rest.

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The island keeps its clocks by the water, not the kirk. Tide tables are the only almanac anyone trusts here, and your grandmother ruled hers with a pen she kept for nothing else. At every spring tide she drew a little sideways eight, the mark that means forever, and beside it a crescent moon with three stars scattered like spilt salt. She said it meant back by the turn of the water. You never asked her what she meant by back, and now the paper is pulp in your palm and the question sits in your throat like a stone.

The ferry leaves at ten past. The skipper, Nessa Gow, is leaning on the rail with her arms folded, watching you run down the slip with a sodden page in your fist. She doesn't ask a single question. She only holds out a hand and hauls you aboard, and as the engine coughs the chapel bell begins to strike twelve. You count the strokes on your fingers the way your grandmother taught you, and somewhere past the breakwater you open your hand and find the ink has dried in the shape of a heart with an arrow through it, pointing home.