Quote tattoo on a lower leg
Lettering · Calf · Black and grey · Photo
A close photograph of a single line of black lettering on the outer part of a lower leg, set in two lines in a typewriter-style font. The ink is solid and even with clean edges, and the skin is smooth and evenly lit. Black and white sneakers and a grey pavement with a drain cover sit at the edges of the frame.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Ruth Pennick had tidied the lost property shelves twice, sorted the umbrellas by colour and wound the platform clock, and still the Imperial on the counter sat waiting for her. The last southbound had long gone, the lamps along platform two were flickering, and the only sound was the stiff clack of a typewriter whose capital Q had stuck years ago. She fed in a fresh card and typed the day's last label: Unclaimed, one brass key, Platform 4, Tuesday.
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The door banged. Walter Hale, stationmaster for thirty-one years, came in with rain on his cap and a cardboard box under one arm. He set it down gently, as if it might wake. "Found it under the bench by the signal box," he said. "Somebody's grandfather's pocket watch, and a letter addressed to nobody." Ruth opened the box. Inside was a folded sheet typed in the same worn face as her machine, and it read only: we're all mad here.
"That's yours," she said. "You typed it for the staff board the winter the boilers froze." He laughed, the first proper laugh she had heard from him since the closure notice went up in September. "Then I'd better claim it before the company does." He took off his cap and turned it in his hands. "Thirty-one years of trains that never ran on time. You get a bit odd, the longer you stand here."
Ruth signed the claim form with him, stamped it, and pinned the card to the board where the brass key had hung all week. Outside, the last lamp on platform two gave up and went dark. Underneath the old label she wrote, in her own slower hand: Claimed, and gone home.
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