Dark blue-black script lettering reading through every dark night, there is a brighter day, tattooed along the side of the ribs.

Script quote along the ribs

Lettering · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a line of cursive script tattooed on the side of the torso, reading through every dark night, there is a brighter day. The lettering has smooth, even linework with a consistent weight. The ink is a dark navy or black on light skin, and the text runs diagonally across the frame against a plain background.

Lettering Ribs Quote Word Script

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The glass had dropped twice in the night, and by first light the Dogger was the colour of wet slate. Ruth Tennant stood at the rail counting the cod in the pound and tried not to think about the sky. Callum, the skipper's boy, kept looking up at it as if it might change its mind if he stared hard enough.

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She had found the card that morning, tucked under the tin of cocoa in the galley where her mother always hid things she meant to be found. It was written in her mother's looping blue biro, the same words she had put inside every Christmas card since Ruth was small: through every dark night, there is a brighter day. At fifteen Ruth had thought it a thing for church halls and tea towels. Now she read it twice with the wind pressing at the porthole and folded it into her oilskin pocket.

The sea came over the bow at seven. It tore the net drum half off its mountings and sent the mate, Dennis, down the companionway with a wrist that bent the wrong way. Ruth took the wheel with Callum's small hands clamped over hers, and they rode each swell up and over until the boat stopped feeling like a thing trying to drown them and became only a thing that was hard work. Nobody spoke except to call depths. Nobody needed to.

They came into Skelling Quay on the second evening under the sodium lamps, the hull scraped and the wheelhouse glass starred with cracks. Ruth pinned the card above the chart table with a rusted drawing pin. When the harbour master asked what the scribble was, she said it was the only forecast worth trusting, and went below to sleep. In the morning the salt had softened the ink, but the line still ran across the card, blurred at the edges and perfectly readable.