Black typewriter-style lettering reading breathe. on the inner wrist, with the hand open and relaxed above it.

Breathe lettering on the inner wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a hand resting palm up with the wrist in the foreground. The single word breathe. is tattooed across the inner wrist in a black, typewriter-style serif font with crisp, even linework. The background is soft and out of focus, in pale and neutral tones.

Lettering Forearm Breathe Word Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Every September the apples came down faster than the pickers could carry them, and in Hollin Cross the old women said the orchard had been promised a voice, though nobody had settled what kind. When Mab Tallow came up from the valley with her father's typewriter strapped to a handcart, the folk of the cross laughed at her, but they set a trestle under the Bramley tree all the same, because the pickers were tired and the wasps were bad that year.

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She typed one word a day and pegged the sheets to the orchard wall to dry. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. The pickers took it for a jibe at their hurry, until they noticed the wasps had stopped stinging and the bees had stopped circling the cider press, and the ladders stopped wobbling on the slope. Old Ansel Rook, who had not spoken since the mill fire, came up the lane one morning and sat on the bottom rung of the nearest ladder with his hands on his knees, breathing in slow, the way the sheets told him to.

On the last afternoon of the picking the machine jammed on the final letter. Mab shook it, cursed it in her father's words, and turned the platen by hand, but the ribbon would not take. Ansel reached across the trestle, laid his palm flat on the paper, and breathed out until the paper fogged with it. The ink came up dark and even, as if it had been waiting for him.

That winter the apples kept on the loft floor until March, and nobody in the cross could remember them lasting so long.