Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Bee and rose on a forearm
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
Two small tattoos sit on an arm: a bee with detailed, delicate wings at the top and a smaller rose with a few petal lines below it. The linework is thin and the shading is light, in soft greys. The subject is shown against a pale wall with a green trailing plant on the left.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The bee gets into the candy floss tent before you do, which is how you know the summer has gone wrong. Your uncle Ray has the stall pitched on the Hadley field, between the waltzers and a hoopla that has been losing money since Tuesday, and he sends you to fetch the honey jars from the van because the bees hate the generator. You find the hive box rattling on the back step. Someone has sealed it with gaffer tape and a note in capitals: NOT MY PROBLEM.
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You know whose problem it is. Mrs Okonedo's boy has been sneaking sugar cubes to the wasps again, and the Cartwright sisters only care about the rose beds they hired you to tend on the fairground's edge. You kneel in the wet grass and peel the tape back slowly, the way Ray taught you, humming the low note he hums when the workers come out angry. One bee climbs onto your knuckle, fat and deliberate, and walks the length of it as if inspecting a seam.
It is the rose you notice last, pinned to the lid of the empty crate, a prize from the tombola that nobody wanted. You take it down, press it flat against the lid, and realise the bee has been circling it all morning, not the sugar. Ray comes round the caravan with his hands in his pockets and finds you laughing at a hive.
"Well," he says. "Looks like you've got a stall after all."
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