Black lettering tattoo in a typewriter-style font across the top of a foot, reading a short note, placed on the foot above the toes.

Typewriter-style note tattoo on the foot

Lettering · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a foot with a three-line message tattooed across the top in a typewriter-style font. The black ink has crisp, even linework, and the lines are set on a slight diagonal across the skin. The plain background is a dark leather surface, which keeps the focus on the lettering.

Lettering Other Text Quote Typewriter font

Find an artist for this

Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The note was propped against the teapot, typed on the old Olivetti that had lived under the stairs since the flat was last let to students, its ribbon gone grey at the edges. Marian read it twice before she put the kettle on. Gone to market. Be back soon. Love, Pie. Pie had been her grandmother's name for as long as anyone could remember, and her grandmother had not climbed the stairs of her own building in four years.

Keep reading

She checked the larder first. A blackcurrant pie sat on the cooling rack with one wedge missing, the cut edge still sharp. The back door was on the latch, and the bus timetable on the fridge had a biro circle drawn round the last service to the river stop, the one that ran past the old covered market. Outside, the streetlamps buzzed over wet cobbles and the bins stood with their lids propped open. Marian pulled on her coat and walked down the hill past the shuttered bakery, counting the pigeons that rose from the gutters as she went.

The market was shut by eleven, its iron gates chained and its stalls under tarpaulin. Her grandmother was sitting on the low wall by the fishmonger's, a paper plate balanced on her knee, feeding the crusts to a fox that watched her with narrow, unbothered eyes. She did not look surprised. She looked, if anything, pleased with herself.

"You're late," Pie said, and held out the plate. "I left you the good bit."

Marian sat down beside her. The pie was still warm under its sugared lid, and the church clock across the square struck twelve, slow and deliberate, while the fox loped off into the dark. The note was folded in Marian's coat pocket now, the typewriter letters softened by the damp, and she found she did not need to read it again.