Black ink tattoo on a forearm showing a handwritten quote, if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the precipitate, beside a simple stick figure holding a briefcase.

Quote and stick figure on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black ink tattoo runs along the inside of a forearm, with a simple stick figure of a man in a suit holding a briefcase on the left. The handwritten-style lettering reads 'if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the precipitate' in thin, uneven strokes across three lines. The image is in black ink only, shown against a skin tone and a grey fabric background with even, natural lighting.

Lettering Forearm Quote Text Stick figure Man Handwriting

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody at the water board ever read the memo about the jar on the windowsill, which is why it was still there the Tuesday Gordon Pell came in with his briefcase and his opinions. Doreen had labelled it SAMPLE 14, ALDER BECK, in marker that had faded to lilac. The water had gone the colour of weak tea, and a crust of pale grit lay on the bottom like something a dog had buried and forgotten.

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"It's a disgrace," Gordon said, tapping the glass with a pen. "The committee needs that bench for the new parking spaces, not for your science project." Doreen explained that the grit was calcium carbonate, the same stuff that furs up a kettle, and that it had come out of the water when the sun warmed it. Gordon said he had not asked for a lecture on kettles. She said it hadn't gone anywhere. "It just stopped pretending to be part of the water," she said. "That's all precipitation is. Things that have had enough of being dissolved."

He sniffed and wrote something in his notebook, underlining it twice. Then he left without the briefcase, which was how Doreen knew he would be back before the bus. At ten to five he was sitting on the lab stool with his tie loosened, asking her to explain it again, slower.

She took a clean beaker, poured in a measure of the clear water from the tap, and tipped in a spoonful of the grit. For a moment nothing happened. Then a faint cloud bloomed, curled, and began to sink through the glass, slow as snow falling inside a paperweight. Gordon leaned in until his nose nearly touched the rim. Neither of them said anything until the last of it had settled.