Realistic colour tattoo of a pink chrysanthemum, yellow gerbera and orange poppy with green stems across the upper arm and shoulder.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Chrysanthemum, gerbera and poppy on an upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A large colour tattoo of three flowers on the upper arm and shoulder: a pink chrysanthemum, a yellow gerbera daisy and an orange poppy, with green stems and leaves below. The petals have soft gradients and fine detail, and the flowers are set against a warm orange and yellow background that fades into darker edges. The arm fills most of the frame, with the flowers arranged in a cluster across the upper arm.

Realism Botanical Upper arm Shoulder Flower Chrysanthemum Poppy Daisy Stem Leaves

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The last sack of sawdust had gone out with the elephant in March, and by August the Halloway Brothers Circus was down to six wagons and a ring that rang hollow underfoot. Dora had been put on the flower stall at the field gate because nobody else would sit in the wind all afternoon selling paper buttonholes to people who had come to see something that no longer existed. Her tin bucket held the last of the market blooms, bruised at the edges, and the orange paint on the stall's awning had begun to peel in long curls.

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An old man in a waxed coat stopped and asked for a chrysanthemum, though she only had gerberas left and one ragged poppy she had bought for herself. He turned the poppy over in his fingers as though it were a coin from a country that had changed its money. He asked whether Ambrose still meant to sell the big top to the scrapyard in Boston. She said yes. He said that was a shame, and she said it was a shame for the lions too, which made him laugh, a dry bark that sounded like a sealion. He paid in coppers and left the poppy behind on the counter.

That night she painted the banner for the final show by the light of a paraffin lamp. The sun in the ring she made yellow, a gerbera's yellow, bright enough to cover the cracks in the canvas. The old tent poles she painted poppy red, and the back row of seats she filled in with the pink of a chrysanthemum gone soft in the damp. When the wind came up off the fen she held the wet sheet flat with her knees and kept going until the faded word SPECTACULAR was buried under petals, and the lamp guttered, and the only thing left shining in the field was the poppy on the counter, orange as a struck match.