Watercolour-style tattoo of a dandelion seedhead and bud with black linework and splashes of purple, yellow and green on a forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dandelion and bud in watercolour on a forearm

Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A dandelion seedhead sits at the top of a long black-outlined stem, with a smaller closed bud lower down and a single leaf to one side. The linework is bold and grey-black, while the soft washes of purple, yellow, green and turquoise and scattered black ink dots create a loose watercolour effect behind the design. The tattoo fills the frame on a forearm, with the stem running diagonally from the top centre towards the bottom of the image.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Rain had been coming sideways down Market Street since eight, and by eleven the awnings sagged like wet sails. Ruth Ashdown stood under the striped canvas of her stall with a tray of seedheads she had picked from the verge behind the allotments, each one a grey-white moon on a thin green stalk. Nobody bought them in the rain. People bought tea and bacon rolls and kept their hands in their pockets.

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A girl in a yellow mac stopped at the trestle, trainers squelching, and pointed at the biggest head. "Does it still work if it's wet?" Ruth said it did, if you blew slowly and didn't mind a few seeds landing on your nose. The girl puffed. The seeds lifted in a rush, a loose fan of pale threads, and for one second they hung over the puddles, catching the light from the fruit stall's lamps in pink and yellow and green, the colours of the jam jars of watercolour her father used to keep on the windowsill.

"Make a wish," Ruth said, the way her father had. The girl shut her eyes so tightly her whole face folded up. When she opened them she looked disappointed, then pleased, then announced she would tell nobody, which was the rule. Ruth watched her run off towards the bus shelter, the yellow mac blurring into the grey.

That evening Ruth found one seed still clinging to a fold of canvas above the trestle, a small wet star with its thread bent sideways. She didn't pick it off. By Saturday the rain had stopped, the awning had dried stiff, and the seed was gone. Somewhere past the bus depot, on a patch of waste ground nobody mowed, a dandelion had lifted its head above the puddle and was already letting go.

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