Seven numbered lines of the words in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, set in different script and typeface styles, shown as a lettering design sheet with no body placement.

Seven lettering styles for a short quote

Lettering · Black and grey · Flash

The image is a numbered sheet of seven lines reading in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, each set in a different handwritten script or typewriter-style face. The top lines use loose, connected cursive with flourished capitals, while the lower lines move towards a more upright hand and then a plain typed font. All the samples are in black ink on a white background, with even spacing between the lines.

Lettering Lettering Script Quote Handwriting

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You find the oven cold at ten to five, the pilot gone out again, and the matchbox empty because somebody used the last match on Tuesday and didn't say. Pearl's coat still hangs on the back door where she left it three weeks ago, the night the water came up Hallam Street and took the bottom shelf of flour sacks with it. You crouch at the oven with a torch in your teeth and listen to the gas tick.

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The starter sits in its crock on the cold table under a tea towel gone grey. Nobody has fed it since the flood. You lift the cloth and the smell is flat and sour, like wet cardboard, and you tell yourself what you would tell a customer: that's that, then. Pearl would have rapped the crock with her fingernail and said, "Listen," as if it might still be talking. Above the flour bins she had copied out a line in pencil, in a hand that leaned like it was running for a bus: in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten. You always assumed it was about bread.

You pour off the grey skin on top, weigh out flour, add water warm enough for your wrist. You stir with the wooden spoon until your shoulder aches, and your hands know the rhythm before your head does.

By the time the shutters go up, there is a bubble breathing at the surface. The oven catches with a soft whump, and you stand with your face to the heat while the first tray of loaves goes in, and you realise you have been holding your breath for three weeks.