Black and grey photo of the inner forearm with the words ALL MONSTERS ARE HUMAN in block lettering, shown against a window.

All Monsters Are Human lettering on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a forearm, angled across the frame, with the words ALL MONSTERS ARE HUMAN set on two lines in bold black block lettering. The letters have clean, even linework with simple shading, and the piece is entirely black ink on pale skin. The background is a softly lit window and curtain in grey tones, which keeps the focus on the text.

Lettering Forearm Text Quote Monster

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The ovens were already warm when you unlocked the back door at half four, and the dough had risen under its damp cloths like a row of sleeping animals. Bartholomew had left a note in capitals: SALT IS IN THE BLUE TIN, DON'T TRUST THE SCALES. You didn't. You weighed by hand, the way he taught you, and by the time the first tray came out the windows had gone from black to the colour of weak tea.

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The boy came at ten past five, when the street was still quiet enough to hear the bins. He stood at the door with his hood up and didn't ask for anything. Mrs Adeyemi from the chemist had been in the night before, telling everyone that a lad from the estate was sleeping in the bus shelter and that you should keep the till locked. You had nodded and kept your face flat. Now you looked at his hands, scraped across the knuckles, and you took the day-old split tin from under the counter and set it on the marble without a word.

He ate it standing up, quickly, the way people eat when they have learned that food can be taken away. Crumbs went down the front of his jacket. "They say you lot make bread out of what's left," he said. "Is that true?" You told him it was true, that Bartholomew had fed half the street on those crusts for thirty years, and that nobody had ever asked him for a receipt.

He looked at you for a long time. Then he left the crusts folded in the paper and walked off up the hill, and you watched until the light came over the car park and turned the flour on your sleeves to gold. When you picked the paper up, he had written underneath in careful biro: THANK YOU. It was the only receipt you had ever been given that didn't belong in the till.