Two fine line script tattoos reading sunshine phrases, one along the ribs and one on the inner forearm, in black ink.

Matching sunshine script on ribs and forearm

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

Two separate lines of cursive script sit on the ribs and the inner forearm, and together they form one phrase split between the two places. The linework is thin and even, in solid black ink with no shading, on smooth skin. A hand with teal nails and a ring rests at the top of the frame, and the plain white background keeps the focus on the lettering.

Fine line Lettering Ribs Forearm Script Sunshine Lettering Quote Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lambing shed smelled of wet straw and iodine, and Ruth had been awake since three. Her brother Tom had not come up from the house. Frost had put a skin on the water trough, and she broke it with the heel of her boot before filling the buckets. Through the gap in the boards the sky was the colour of pewter, and she thought of the song their mother used to sing over the kitchen sink, the one with the sunshine in it, and how Tom had always sung the second half wrong.

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Tom arrived at seven with the dog at his heels and a roll of masking tape stuck to his sleeve. He said the solicitor had rung about the boundary. Ruth said she didn't want to talk about the boundary. They stood either side of a ewe that was struggling, and she worked the lamb free with her sleeves rolled to the elbow while he held the lantern steady. It came out grey and still. She rubbed it with straw until it sneezed.

Later, in the kitchen, they found the old card in the biscuit tin. Their mother had torn it in half the year their father left and given each of them a piece, the first line on one half and the second on the other. Tom turned his over. Ruth turned hers. Neither said anything for a while. The kettle ticked as it cooled.

'You always got the tune,' Tom said at last. 'I just got the words wrong.' She laughed, and it hurt a little, and she pushed the two halves together on the oilcloth so the edges met, the way they had when they were small. The thin winter light from the window lay across the seam like a line someone had drawn with a steady hand.