Black fine line script tattoo reading "Wild hearts can't be tamed" with decorative swirls, placed on the calf.

Wild hearts can't be tamed lettering on a leg

Lettering · Calf · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo spells out the phrase "Wild hearts can't be tamed" in stacked, looping script with curled flourishes at the top and bottom. It is drawn in thin, even black linework with no shading, and the text is set at a slight angle across the skin. The photograph is taken straight on against a soft, blurred background, with the tattoo filling most of the frame.

Lettering Fine line Calf Script Lettering Quote Swirl Flourish

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The colt had split the top rail of the paddock gate twice before the frost set in, and Dad Hollis said the next thing to split would be my collarbone if I kept leaning on it. Three weeks into January the yard was grey slush, and the only warm thing on the place was the breath steaming off the animals at six in the morning. Hollis wanted him halter-broken by February. I wanted him left alone.

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Every morning I sat on the mounting block with a bucket of oats and my back to the wind. He came over slow, ears flat, until he could reach the bucket and I could reach his neck. He never let me near the rope. I gave up trying by the second week and talked instead, about feed prices and the crow stealing eggs from the coop. He listened the way horses do, which is to say he never pretended to agree.

On the last Sunday of the month the snow came in sideways. We went out with lanterns and found him at the hedge gap where the old track runs down to the reservoir, shoulders white, staring into the dark. I didn't reach for the rope. I opened the gate. He stood long enough for the snow to fill my boots, then went through at a flat gallop, and the lantern light lost him in the white.

Hollis didn't say anything for a long while. Then he took off his cap and turned it round in his hands. 'Well,' he said. 'That's one way to tame a thing.' The next morning the oats sat untouched, and in the soft snow by the block ran a single line of hoofprints coming back up the track, neat as stitching, stopping right beside my own boot marks, as if he had come to see whether I was still there.