Black script lettering reading Bitch tattooed on the inside of a lower lip, with a teal painted fingernail holding the lip open.

Script word tattoo inside lower lip

Lettering · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a single word in black cursive script tattooed on the inner lower lip. The lines are thin and fairly even, with light shading in the letter strokes and a slight blur at the edges. The image is mostly warm skin tones with the teeth and a teal painted fingernail visible at the edge of the frame.

Lettering Other Word Script

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Ambrose Thwaite had lettered every gate, van door and chapel noticeboard between Kendal and Kirkby Stephen for thirty-one years, and he had never been handed a slip of paper like the one Carol Haydock pushed across his bench on Tuesday. 'For the kennel gate,' she said. 'Copperplate, like the feed sacks.' He read it twice. 'That's a dog's name,' he said. She said it was, that her grandmother's bitch had gone by it, and nobody in the valley had thought twice about it since the war.

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He mixed ultramarine with a little lamp black, because the gate was old oak and wanted a colour that would sink into the grain. The lettering took the whole of Wednesday morning. He ran the capital B in one long loop like a tail going round a post, and let the final h drop under the rail where the rain could have a go at it. Carol's collies lay in the straw behind him and watched every stroke, heads on their paws, as if they were checking his spelling.

By Friday the paint was dry and the gate hung in the yard with its new name. The pup Carol had been keeping back, a scruffy little thing with one white ear, was collected by a farmer from Penrith in a Land Rover that smelled of diesel and wet wool. Ambrose watched from the lane as the pup stood on the back seat and barked at the gate, at the word, as though it knew it was being called.

Carol came out with two mugs of tea and handed him one. 'She'll be back at Christmas,' she said. 'They always are.' He looked at the blue loops going soft grey in the drizzle and thought that a name was only ever a thing you called across a field until something came running.