Small black fine line tattoo of a dandelion with seeds drifting away, placed on the back of a woman's neck above a grey top.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dandelion and drifting seeds on the neck

Fine line · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of the back of a woman's neck, with her hair in a loose bun and her face not visible. The tattoo shows two dandelion heads on thin stems, with small seeds blowing off to the right. The linework is fine and delicate, with light shading in the seed heads, and the small design sits centrally at the nape of the neck.

Fine line Botanical Neck Dandelion Seed Flower Stem

Find an artist for this

Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The generator coughs twice before the Waltzer finds its tune, and you are already late for the lamp-lit stall at the far end of the field, where Mrs Ogle keeps the takings in a biscuit tin and the float tucked in her cardigan. Your apron pockets are heavy with coppers and a bent tent peg. Behind the dodgems a boy is crying because his balloon has drifted up into the poplars, and you are the only one close enough to see it happen.

Keep reading

Nobody sells wishes at Hollin Green any more, not officially. But the old showman left a sack of dandelion clocks in the caravan when he died, pressed flat between the pages of a hymnal, and Mrs Ogle has been pricing them at a penny a puff. You take one from the tray, lean out over the hook-a-duck pond and blow. The seeds lift off in a scatter of white, each carrying a small, stubborn request past the candyfloss van toward the railway cutting, and for a moment the whole field smells of cut grass and diesel.

The boy stops crying when you tell him the tree is only keeping the balloon warm until summer. You give him a clock and show him how to breathe on it gently, not as if he is trying to put out a candle. He tries too hard. Half the seeds go wrong, drifting toward the car park where a man in a brown suit is arguing with the ticket machine.

At close the stalls go dark one by one, and the dodgem cars are sheeted like sleeping horses. You find one clock left in the bottom of the tray, its head gone grey and brittle. You step out past the caravans, make a wish you will not say aloud, and blow. The last seeds catch the single headlight of the lorry pulling out of the gate, and you watch them ride the beam all the way to the road.