Black ink tattoo of the words Bears, Beets, Battlestar Galactica in a typewriter-style font across the outer thigh.

Typewriter text quote on a leg

Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo reads Bears, Beets, Battlestar Galactica in three lines of black typewriter-style lettering, with the last line running across the width of the limb. The letters are crisp, solid black with no visible shading, and the skin around them looks slightly reddened. The photo is taken close up on a plain surface, with the limb filling most of the frame.

Thigh Text Quote Typewriter font Bear

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Rhian had been told to clear the back room of the Tenbury Road sorting office before the lease ran out, and she expected boxes of unclaimed parcels, not a typewriter. It sat on a steel desk under a dust sheet, grey and cracked at one corner, with a sheet of paper still wound in its roller like something it had forgotten to finish.

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The paper was a memo, typed in capitals and dated March 1994, addressed to all depot staff about the fire drill. Beneath the signature, in a different rhythm, someone had typed three lines and pressed so hard the keys had bitten through: Bears, then Beets, then a longer line that ran off the edge of the page, Battlestar Galactica. Rhian read it twice, then read the staff file in the drawer, which said the typist was Gordon Pyle, assistant to the area manager, and that he had left after his fourth dispute over the tea rota.

She tried the machine herself. The keys were stiff, but the bell rang true when she reached the margin. She typed her own name, then the date, then, without quite deciding to, the first line of the old memo again. The ribbon was dark and sharp, far newer than the paper it marked, and whoever had kept this thing working for thirty years had not been a man who forgot things.

She sent the boxes to the skip and carried the typewriter out to her van wrapped in a bath towel. The new tenant, a florist, rang a month later to say it had started clacking after closing, always the same three lines, always Battlestar Galactica last, and could Rhian please come and take it away. Rhian said she would and did not. At night in her own kitchen she typed the lines again, slowly, because it seemed rude to let him finish on his own.