Black typewriter-style lettering reading there is light somewhere, it may not be much light, but it beats the darkness, tattooed along the inner forearm.

Typewriter quote tattoo on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo is three lines of black typewriter-style lettering running diagonally along the forearm, reading there is light somewhere, it may not be much light, but it beats the darkness. The letters are solid, even black ink with slightly uneven edges that suggest a simple monochrome typeface. The skin is pale and the photo is taken at an angle against a dark background, with the text filling most of the frame.

Lettering Forearm Quote Text Word Typewriter font

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Rain had been coming sideways down the market hall since eleven, and by two the only customers left were the ones with nowhere else to be. Mrs Adeyemi-Clark set a black portable on my trestle with the care people give a sleeping cat. The capital E had gone dead, she said. Her son was coming on Thursday to collect her letters for the college application, and she could not type a single line without it.

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I opened the case on a sheet of newspaper. Years of ink dust, a hairline crack in the platen, and a lever spring snapped clean through. I told her what I could manage by Thursday and what I couldn't. She laughed and said her late husband had always talked about cars the same way. While I worked she tested the keys the way you'd hum a tune to check a piano. "There is light somewhere," she typed, slowly, striking each key like a stair she didn't trust. "It may not be much light."

I wiped the type bars with a rag and a drop of paraffin, and the E came back with a click that made us both look up. She didn't finish the line. She sat with one finger resting on the shift key. "Ray wrote that on the back of a bus ticket the winter they moved him to nights," she said. "Said it was a bit of a lie, mostly. Said it was the only lie he could stand to tell."

She paid me in coins counted out in a row on the table, then lifted the typewriter in both arms and walked into the rain. Through the wet glass I watched her stop under the fish stall, set it on the step, and type something quick before wrapping it in her coat. The streetlamp caught the stubborn E on the page she'd left behind, and I could still make out the last line she'd typed: but it beats the darkness.