Black and grey dotwork mandala tattoo with petals and leaves across the inner wrist and lower forearm.

Dotwork mandala on the wrist

Dotwork · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A circular mandala of layered petals and pointed leaves fills the wrist and lower forearm, with a flower-like centre. The linework is crisp and dark, and the petal shapes are filled with stippled dots that give soft shading. The photograph is black and white, with the hand resting on a dark surface and the design centred in the frame.

Dotwork Geometric Forearm Mandala Flower Petal Leaves

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

By the third week of September the windfalls under the Foxwhelp trees had started to turn to wasps' sugar, and Ada Pryce had given up pretending the cider house would take them all. She walked the rows with a bucket on her hip, stooping for the bruised ones and leaving the sound ones on the grass for the pickers' children, who came up from the village every afternoon with their pockets loud with conkers.

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Her uncle had kept a book of drawings in the press room, pages of circles drawn with a compass and a pencil worn to a stub. Every apple he cut, he cut across the middle, not down, and he said the pips made a star if you looked long enough. Ada had never looked long enough. That afternoon she sliced a Court Pendu Plat on the bench and held the two halves to the window. Five chambers, five dark seeds in each, set in a ring around a hollow centre like a flower opening from the inside.

She thought of the drawing on the last page of his book, a mandala copied from a Dutch tile, its petals layered and dotted with tiny marks where he had pressed the nib again and again until the paper gave. He had been trying, he told her once, to make something that held still. The apple did not hold still. By the time she had fetched her sketchbook the cut face had already browned at the edges.

She drew it anyway, fast, the seeds becoming dots and the flesh becoming petals, and when she had finished the page looked less like her uncle's tile than like the fruit itself, going soft and sweet on the sill. She left the sketchbook open beside the bucket and went out to the trees again, where the light was low and the pickers were still calling to one another across the rows.