Fine line black script tattoo of small words on the nape of a woman's neck, with a blonde braid over one shoulder, photographed from behind.

Small script words on the nape

Fine line · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A woman is photographed from behind, with a long blonde braid falling over one shoulder and a white top strap crossing her bare back. A small script tattoo sits on the nape of her neck, appearing to read as two words. The image is sepia toned, so the fine black linework and the soft tonal shading of the photograph are the main colour elements.

Fine line Lettering Neck Script Word Braid

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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 came down the stairs of Marrow House on the last Sunday in August with your bag already strapped and your coat over one arm, though the tide was still out and St Ebba's hadn't rung eleven. Mrs Pargeter, who had kept the house on Sea Lane for thirty-one years, watched you from the hall table where she was counting spoons. You didn't wait for the bill. You left two shillings on the runner beside the barometer, more than the room had cost, and told her the kettle in Room Four was hers to keep.

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Upstairs, you stood at the window before you went. The sash was open a finger's width, the way you had kept it every night to hear the sea against the groyne. On the sill lay a pencil stub and a picture postcard of the pier with its gaudy bulbs, and you sat on the bare ticking of the bed and wrote on the back, in small careful capitals, the same two words until the card ran out of room: LIVE FOREVER. You pressed hard enough to dent the board.

You had learned the phrase from Mr Lusk, who lodged in this room before you and sang it under his breath while he shaved, a music-hall line his mother had taught him. You never cared for the tune, only the sense of it, a thing a person could say to grey water and feel answered. He was gone by the next spring, and nobody on Sea Lane spoke of it after the first week.

You weighted the postcard with a pebble from the windowsill and left it face up for whoever came next. Then you walked down to the front with the bag on your shoulder, counting the lamps along the pier until the last one went out.