Yellow lettering with a dark outline reading DON'T PANIC in bubble capitals, tattooed on the inner forearm near the wrist.

Don't Panic lettering on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows the two-line phrase DON'T PANIC in thick, rounded capitals filled with yellow and orange shading and outlined in black. It sits on the forearm close to the wrist, with the edge of the hand visible at the right of the frame. The photograph is taken at a slight angle under indoor light, and the ink looks fairly fresh and bright against the skin.

Lettering Forearm Slogan Lettering Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit nearer the stove, the wind on this pass likes to listen at the shutters. Every spring the carriers came up from Vallonca with their loads and their nerves, and every spring old Brannoch at the post house sold them a hard biscuit and one sentence. Don't panic. He had it stamped in yellow ink on the lids of his tins, because the printer in the valley had only the orange left over from a circus bill, and he said the two colours together made people believe a thing.

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The snow came down on the twelfth of March, the year the glacier moved. A girl named Marisol Ferrer was caught on the upper switchbacks with two goats and a sealed letter for the bishop. Her uncle, who had never once in his life stayed calm, ran back down the road shouting, and the goats scattered up the slope. Brannoch did not run. He lit a lantern, tied a rope to the bell post, and walked up into the white saying the words over and over, so she would have a voice to follow that was not frightened.

Marisol heard him. She had been digging with her hands and her breath was coming short, but she counted the way he had taught her, and she followed the bells the goats still wore. By morning she came through the post house door grey with snow, the letter buttoned against her chest and dry as a loaf.

The yellow card is still nailed above the stove. Nobody has ever repainted it, and the ink has gone the colour of old butter, and every carrier who climbs up here still reads it aloud before paying for his biscuit.