Woman seen from behind in a red lace dress with an open back, showing a small black script lettering tattoo across her upper back.

Small script tattoo on upper back

Lettering · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A woman with shoulder-length blonde hair is photographed from behind, wearing a red floral lace dress with an open back. A small black script line sits across the upper back, between the shoulder blades, and its letterforms are too small to read clearly. The tattoo is in solid black ink with clean, fine strokes against pale skin, set against a white brick wall.

Lettering Back Script Lettering Text

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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

You are the only one in Harrow Fold who still walks the Ashgrove path with the post, because the hedge-letter box at the stile has been empty since your uncle's day, and nobody else will go past the third oak. The envelopes you carry are addressed in a hand that changes from one to the next, looping, cramped, sometimes backwards, and none of them have a stamp. Mrs Pennock says they come from the people who used to live under the roots. You have stopped arguing with her.

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On the Tuesday of the thaw, a single line was pinned under the stile's lintel: a strip of birch bark, the ink run by rain, the words too fine to make out from the lane. You copied them into your notebook letter by letter, the way your mother taught you to copy hymn numbers, and that night you sat with the book open on the kitchen table until the kettle went cold. The letters were not English. Some were not letters at all, only small hooks and cross-strokes that made your eye slide off them.

On Thursday you took the bark down and carried it into the wood, past the third oak, to the hollow where the envelopes come from. You knelt and read the line aloud, badly, one stroke at a time. Nothing answered. Then the wind lifted the leaves and the bark turned in your hand, and you saw the ink had been written from the other side, facing the path, facing whoever would walk back out.

It was a question, you decided, and the answer was yes. You posted nothing. You walked home with your hands empty, and in the morning there was a new envelope on the stile, addressed to you, sealed with red thread, and it had no stamp and no need of one.