Black and grey botanical tattoo on the upper thigh of a woman lifting a black Batman t-shirt, with her face out of frame.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Black and grey floral thigh tattoo

Botanical · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A woman in a black Batman t-shirt holds the hem up, showing her midriff, a navel piercing and black underwear, with her face out of frame. A black and grey ornamental floral tattoo with fine shading and swirling foliage covers the outer thigh, with a smaller floral section near the hip. The image has a dark, moody backdrop with soft lighting that highlights the skin and ink.

Botanical Thigh Floral Ornamental Swirl Foliage

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The last of the windfalls had gone soft in the long grass, and Mabel Rudd was still picking up the good ones when the stranger came over the orchard wall. He wore a coat the colour of wet bark and carried a folding rule in his breast pocket, the sort surveyors use. He asked for the oldest tree on the place. She pointed with her basket at the codlin by the beehives, its trunk split and bound with copper wire.

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He crouched and laid his hand flat on the bark, then took out a notebook and began to draw. What he drew was leaf and tendril, curling in on itself, each scroll turning into the next like a fern uncurling in reverse. His grandmother had cut that pattern into the bark of every orchard in the valley, he said, before the mill owners bought the land and sold the trees for firewood. He believed the swirls ran down under the roots and joined up with the others.

Mabel told him her father had taught her that you prune to let the light into the middle, and that a tree remembers the shape you give it. The stranger offered silver for the codlin. She said no. He said nothing more, only tapped the wire with one finger and walked off along the wall as the light went out of the hill.

In the spring the wire had slackened and the bark had lifted in long curls, and green shoots pushed out in the same spirals he had drawn. By autumn the apples came away with little twisted stalks, like fiddleheads. Mabel kept the best one on the windowsill and turned it each morning so the curls faced the glass.