Blue watercolour-style TARDIS tattoo with black script lettering on the ribs of a person's side.

TARDIS and script on the ribs

Lettering · Ribs · Colour · Photo

A blue police box, shown in a soft wash style with lighter panels on its doors and windows, sits on the side of the torso. Black fine-line script reading Allonsy with a looping flourish sits to the right of the blue wash. The shading is soft and the image is taken at a close angle on a plain skin background, with a hand and a ring visible at the top edge.

Lettering Ribs Tardis Police box Doctor who Script

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The snow has buried the lane past the second milestone, and the last carrier turned back down the valley before noon, so by dusk you are the only guest left at the Hollin Arms. Mags Teague fills your mug from the kettle and nods at the window, where a squared shape stands in the yard with a lamp burning above its door. It was not there at supper, and nobody here has seen it arrive.

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You take the lantern out through the back and brush the snow from its panels. The blue is cracked and soft, like a wash left out in the rain, with a small lit window at each corner. Your boots squeak on the cobbles. You knock twice because it seems the polite thing to do, and the door swings inwards by itself, letting out a breath of warm air that smells of oranges and hot metal.

A man in a coat far too long for him leans out, hair in a fierce state, and grins as if you were the one he had been waiting for. 'Ah, the innkeeper's lantern. Good. Hold that steady, would you? Snow's got into the vents.' You hold it steady while he talks about a valley he means to visit in spring and a cup of tea he has been promising himself for centuries. When he shuts the panel he says the word painted over the stable door, the one nobody at the Hollin remembers putting there: 'Allonsy.'

By morning the snow has stopped and the lane is clear to the milestone. The yard holds a neat square of dry cobbles where the box stood. On the stable door, in fresh blue paint, someone has added a looping line to the old word, a stroke that runs off the end like a road going on. Mags reads it over her tea and says nothing. Neither do you. You simply pull on your gloves and start walking.