Black lettering tattoo reading 'if you don't live for something you'll die for nothing' across the chest, with a plaid shirt held open around it.

Quote tattoo across the chest

Lettering · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo is a line of text set in four lines in a bold, slightly irregular serif typeface. It is rendered in solid black ink with some soft edges and fading in places. The skin fills the centre of the frame, with fingers holding a plaid shirt open on either side, and the text sits in the middle of the composition.

Lettering Chest Quote Text Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The bell at Sallow Cross split in the hard frost of 1953, and for a whole winter the parish argued over who should pay to have it recast. Hetty Brume said the squire should, since his grandfather had sold the old tenor for scrap. The squire said the church should. The vicar said the bell would ring again the day somebody cared enough to pull the rope.

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So Walter Eames, who kept the forge at the bottom of Chapel Lane and had no opinions on anything that was not iron, walked eleven miles to Wexcombe with a sack of horseshoe nails to sell and a bellfounder's address written on the back of a seed packet. The founder, a bent man called Orrin Vail, quoted forty pounds. Walter had eleven. He offered to work the bellows for a year instead, and Vail laughed so hard he had to sit down on the step.

He let him stay, though, and in the smoke and the red glare Walter learned that bronze forgives nothing. A pour made in a hurry cracks as it cools, and a man who rushes the cooling will hear it years later in the middle of a sermon. Vail had lost three bells before he was thirty. He had stopped counting the hours he spent beside the pit, and he had never once let anyone else tap the mould.

On the last night of the year Walter poured the new bell himself. In the morning Vail set his ear to the cold metal, tapped it with a hammer, and said nothing for a long time. Walter walked home along the frozen lane with his palms wrapped in rag. On the first Sunday of spring the bell rang out over the flat fields, clear and low, and he stood at the forge door and listened until the last note had gone quite into the air.