Black ink dotwork flash design of a symmetrical geometric lotus mandala with a long central stem, drawn on plain cream paper with no body part shown.

Dotwork lotus mandala design

Dotwork · Black and grey · Flash

A symmetrical geometric lotus-style mandala drawn in black ink, with a tall pointed finial at the top and a long vertical stem running down to a small diamond at the base. The petals are built from bold outlines filled with dense stippled dotwork shading, with fine dotted lines and small arrow-like spikes extending from the sides. The design is shown in black on a cream background, centred on the page.

Dotwork Geometric Lotus Mandala Ornament Geometric pattern Diamond Spike

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The first trays always went in while the street was still black. My aunt Isla had the lamps lit and the starter out on the bench before I got my apron tied, and she didn't look up when I came in, only pushed a bowl of rye across the flour towards me with the heel of her hand. "Fold it like you mean it," she said. "Every fold is a pleat. Count them."

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I counted, and my arms ached, and the dough went from slack to glossy under my palms. Isla said a lotus was only a mud-coloured thing that had learned to open, and I thought she was talking nonsense until I saw the first loaves come out of the deck oven, their crusts split into sharp points and folded back like petals on a pond. The flour dust hung in the lamplight and settled on the sill like fine dots of ink, and across the lane a window was lit where someone else was awake too.

A boy came to the back door just after five, hood up, hands red from the cold. He didn't ask for anything. He just stood there until Isla wrapped a day-old loaf in brown paper and pressed it into his chest. "Bring the paper back," she told him, "or I'll have your name off the register." He nodded and ran off with the bread under his jumper, and she watched him go with a look I'd never seen on her before.

By the time the grey came up over the chimneys, the crates were stacked by the door and the van was idling at the kerb. Isla wiped her hands on her apron and held up the last loaf, its crown of splits still steaming. "Now," she said, "it's bread."