Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Fine line flower on an ankle
Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo
A single flower with a rounded bloom of thin petal strokes sits at the top of a long, slender stem that runs diagonally down the ankle. The linework is fine and dark, with light grey shading inside the petals and along the stem. The plain black ink sits against bare skin, with white sneakers and a wooden chair visible in the background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Brother Anselm kept the physic garden at Saint Hild's for thirty-one winters, and in all that time he never let anyone else prune the rue. The abbot called it vanity. I called it the only honest work left in the place, because a plant cut badly tells you so by spring.
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The autumn the novice arrived from Durham, he brought a paper packet of seed tied with thread and a letter that had been opened and read so often the folds had gone soft as cloth. I did not ask who had written it. He wanted the seed planted along the south wall, where the stones hold the sun until dusk, and I told him the ground there was too thin for anything but thyme. He went out with a trowel anyway, every evening for a month, kneeling in the cold while the bell rang for compline without him.
Nothing came up until March. Then one morning a single stem stood tall above the thyme, bare and wiry, and at its top a head of pale petals had opened like a question nobody had yet thought to ask. The boy stood there with his hands tucked into his sleeves and said nothing, and neither did I. We let it stand.
He left for Durham before midsummer, and before he went he cut the flower and pressed it between the pages of the herbal. Years later I took that book down to check a dose for the infirmary and found it there, the petals gone the colour of weak tea, the stem still running straight down the margin like a pen stroke that had decided to stop. I closed the book carefully and put it back on the shelf where he had left it.
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