Black lettering tattoo reading my food doesn't scream in a typewriter-style font, on the forearm.

Typewriter quote on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo is two lines of black text reading "my food doesn't scream" in a typewriter-style serif font, set in the centre of the forearm. The lines are solid and even, with the typewriter letterforms rendered in black ink on a light, warm-toned skin surface. The plain background and close framing keep the focus on the lettering.

Lettering Forearm Quote Text Typewriter font Phrase

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The card was taped above the galley sink on the Bramley Lass, a supply boat out of Lowestoft, its corners gone the colour of weak tea. Someone had typed it years back on a machine with a sticking e, so the words sat slightly crooked on the paper: my food doesn't scream. Nobody on the crew would own up to it. The skipper said it was Maureen's, and Maureen had cooked for the boat for nineteen years before her wrists gave out and she went ashore to grow tomatoes.

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I inherited the galley and the card along with the pans, and for the first month I left it alone. The lads wanted fried everything on a Friday, bacon at six, and I cooked lentil dhal and barley and whatever the greengrocer had left in the crates. Gary called it grass soup. I told him grass soup was what he'd get until he could tell me what the sheep had been screaming about.

In March we took a swell off the Dogger that laid the boat over so far the tins went skating across the deck and the cabin lights flickered for an hour. Gary came into the galley grey-faced and sat on the bench with his hands between his knees. I put a bowl of barley broth in front of him and said nothing. After a while he picked up the spoon and asked whether Maureen had really meant it. I said I reckoned she meant she could sleep at night. He laughed, the first time I'd heard him do it sober.

When the sea went flat again I peeled the old card off the tiles, pinned a fresh sheet beneath it and typed a line of my own: nor does the bread. The extractor fan above the hob lifted it up and down all afternoon, as if it was trying to read it.