Solid black stencil-style tattoo of a figure mid-throw holding a bouquet with small red flowers, on the side of the ribs.

Figure throwing a bouquet on the ribs

Ribs · Mixed · Photo

The tattoo shows a solid black silhouette of a figure in a mid-throw pose, with one arm extended back and the other holding a bouquet of flowers. The edges are bold and ragged, with no fine shading, and the figure is set against plain skin. Small red accents in the flowers are the only colour, and the composition fills most of the frame.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The cannon on the breakwater had not been fired since the year the herring failed, so when the men from the council came down to Carrick Quay with their surveyors' poles, nobody thought to fear them. They fenced off the net lofts by noon. By the afternoon the fishwives had gathered at the gate, and the constable stood among them with his truncheon on his belt and his hat pushed back.

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Tomas Ferriter was the youngest of the net-menders and the only one not born in the town. He stood at the front with a stone in his fist, as the others did, and looked at the constable. Then he looked at the flower stall by the chandler's door, where old Mrs Quill sold sea pinks in tin buckets for a penny a bunch. He put the stone in his pocket, tipped out the coins from his boot, and bought the whole bucket.

The constable watched him come across the cobbles. Tomas drew his arm back the way a man draws back to cast a net, and the crowd went quiet, waiting for the crack of stone on wood. Instead the bouquet left his hand in a long, loose arc, red-tipped and shedding water, and it dropped over the wire onto the surveyors' boots. Nobody moved. Then the constable bent, picked up one sea pink, and tucked it behind his ear.

The fence came down the next spring. Children still play it on the quay, one the thrower and the rest the constable, and they always end the same way, with the bloom landing where it was meant to. Mrs Quill's stall is gone now, but the tin buckets are still hung on the chandler's wall, and the gulls know better than to nest above them.

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