The Inker

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From one complex to another, the Inker leaves his apartment and heads for the office. He folds up his wet, tarp like umbrella as he swishes through the glass, lobby doors.He scrapes his shoes on the rug at the door to keep the bland gray tile clean. Mundane monday morning, he greets the women at the front desk.grabs his cup of black coffee, and enters the elevator.
What could be a quick ride up to the 23rd floor is obstructed by the same annoying folk every morning. The first floor, second floor, third floor… there is always someone who needs to go up. Someone who needs to hold the elevator.
After what seems like an eternity, the metal cage opens, and freedom floods his eyes. Walls coated in comic panels guide him to his studio. While it may have been not much larger than an ordinary cubicle, to the inker this was his studio. He hangs his dreary, dripping coat in on his chair and teachers for today's pages. Today: Spider-man. Tomorrow: Star Wars. The next day: who knows.
The penciler had already done his job, the entire issue is sketched out, and now it is this inker’s job to add depth. He rests the ruffled pages down on his desk and reaches for his most dependent tool: the sharpie. He presses the felt tip to the paper, the ink bleeds into every paper pore. With quick confidence, his hands runs against the contour of characters bodies, signifying shadows. The marker makes its permanent moves, each stroke significant. The image needs to tell a story as well as the words, and the linker knows every story. He is the marker. Crafting with care, the inker’s determined details will be printed perfection.






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