Fine red script lettering reading Mischief Managed across the top of a foot in a black studded high heel, Lettering style, placed on the foot.

Script lettering on the top of a foot

Lettering · Other · Colour · Photo

A close photograph of a foot in a black suede high heel with a studded strap at the back. Fine script lettering in dark red ink runs diagonally across the top of the foot, reading Mischief Managed. The lines are thin and even, and the warm, soft-focus framing places the tattoo against the shoe and a wooden floor.

Lettering Other Script Lettering Foot High heel Shoe Text

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

The goats were in the vestry before matins, and nobody in Hollin Ash could say how. Mrs Pyke swore she had locked the lych gate herself. Thomas Gale swore the latch had not lifted. The vicar's surplice hung on the lectern with a hen's feather pinned to its collar, and the churchwarden's ledger, which had lived in a locked oak chest since Michaelmas, lay open on the altar at a page where someone had written in a quick, slanting hand: Mischief Managed.

Keep reading

Joan Ashby, who kept the parish accounts and so considered herself the village's only honest witness, took the lantern out to the lychgate the next night and sat on the cold stone bench with a flask of sloe gin she had no intention of sharing. Past the last cottage the forest began, dark and patient, and it had always taken what it wanted from Hollin Ash: a lamb now and then, a cart wheel, once a curate. She waited until the church clock struck two. Then she heard the goats come bleating down the lane, and behind them, humming an old tune badly, came her nephew Kit, twelve years old and carrying a tin of golden syrup and a pair of his grandmother's spectacles.

She did not shout. She asked him why. Kit said the village had gone so quiet that the wind had nothing to argue with, and that nobody had laughed in Hollin Ash since the mill burned. He said it as if it were a grievance he had filed himself. Joan looked at the goats, which were nibbling her hymn sheets, and at the boy, whose face was smudged with soot and something sweeter.

In the morning she returned the ledger to the chest. Underneath the slanting words she wrote, in her neat accountant's hand, a single entry: one goat, one curate's sermon, one hen, all paid in full. Then she unlocked the chest again, took out the syrup tin, and set it on the vicar's table where the whole parish would find it by noon.