Be still script on the ribs
Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo
A small black script tattoo reads be still across the side of the ribcage. The linework is thin and even, with a single continuous stroke joining the letters and a looping tail under the final l. The skin is a warm tan in bright daylight, with a grey top lifted at the edge of the frame and a blurred car and shopfront behind.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Every morning before the church bell in Harrowgate, old Mrs Ebbs unlocked the bakehouse and gave her grandson the same instruction. Dough does not care how quick your hands are. It rises when it rises. Go and sit on the flour sacks and be still.
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Tomas hated this. He was nine, the oven ticked like a clock with a grudge, and the cold came up through the flagstones into his bare feet. Outside the window the lane was black, and now and then a cart went past with its lamp swinging. He counted the loaves on the rack. He counted them again. Nothing in the bakehouse wanted him to hurry except himself.
One morning the sacks were empty and he had run out of loaves to count. He went to the proving trays and pressed his thumb into a bowl of dough, and it sprang back at him slowly, like something waking. He understood then that it had been breathing all night while he slept, and the sound he had been hearing was only the bread finding its shape.
He stopped fidgeting. He sat on the stool and let his hands rest in his lap. When the first grey light came over the rooftops, Mrs Ebbs found him asleep with flour in his hair and the loaves already risen beside him, every one exactly as tall as it needed to be.
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