Black fine line tattoo of a serotonin molecular structure with the word warr;or in serif lettering, on a person's upper back near the shoulder blade.

Serotonin molecule and warr;or script on upper back

Fine line · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A fine line tattoo of a serotonin molecule, shown as a skeletal chemical structure with HO, NH2 and NH labels, sits beside the word warr;or in a bold serif typeface. The linework is clean and even, with solid black lettering and no shading or colour. The design runs diagonally across the upper back, with the skin texture and a slight redness around the tattoo visible.

Fine line Lettering Back Molecule Chemical structure Script Word Semicolon

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

Pell had the press warm by six, the way her mother had taught her to warm a kiln, slowly and without hoping to be hurried. The ledger lay open beside it at a page the damp had puckered. Someone two centuries dead had drawn a fused ring of carbon with a short stalk reaching toward a nitrogen, and beneath it a word split by a single stroke of ink: warr;or. In the margin, in the same hand, someone had written only, for the hard months.

Keep reading

The colony called those months the dim. The lamps along the spine were turned down to spare the reactors, and the crew moved through the corridors without talking much. Pell had printed the molecule a dozen times for the infirmary, always from the sealed vial in the cold store, always with the labels exactly where the textbooks put them. Nobody had ever asked her for the word beside it. Nobody in the infirmary had ever needed a word like that. She had found it only because the old chemists kept their notes in the back of the ledger, where the things they could not bring themselves to print went to live.

She thought about the semicolon. Her grandmother had kept a battered copy of a grammar on the shelf above the stove, and had once tapped the mark with a floury finger and said it was the only stop that promised the sentence was not finished. The two halves had to stand on either side and hold each other up. Pell considered the diagram, the little stalk, the nitrogen that wanted something from the world, and the stroke of ink that cut a word in two without ending it.

When the press chimed, she lifted the sheet, pressed it flat between two cool plates, and wrote beneath the old note in her own careful capitals: NOT YET. Then she clipped the page back into the ledger and turned down the lamp for the night shift, leaving the corridor humming in its one low note.