Black and grey fine line tattoo of a flowering botanical sprig on the upper chest near the collarbone, with a red top and gold chain in view.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Floral sprig tattoo on upper chest

Fine line · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A slender stem with several open flowers and buds runs diagonally across the upper chest, with a leaf-like shape at the upper end. The linework is fine and dark, with soft grey shading inside the petals and along the stem. The image is a close crop in warm daylight, with a red garment and a thin gold necklace framing the tattoo.

Fine line Botanical Chest Flower Sprig Stem Bud Leaves

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

Mother had sent the girl up the hill path before the dew was off the grass, with a loaf wrapped in muslin and orders not to stop under the damson trees, because the damson trees belonged to the widow Hale, who counted her fruit by moonlight. Ada stopped anyway. A branch of blue-grey flowers had come loose from the hedge bank, the bells on it hanging open like small wet hands, and she picked the longest sprig and tucked it into her collar, where the locket on its thin gold chain pressed against it.

Keep reading

The widow was waiting at the gate with a basket on her hip. She did not shout. She looked at the sprig, then at Ada's face, and said the flower was larkspur and that it only grew where someone had been buried without a name cut in stone. Ada said she knew of no such grave. The widow said that was the trouble with names: people forgot to give them.

They walked the orchard rows together, past apples going red at the shoulder and pears split on the bough, until they reached a corner where the grass grew long and the bees hummed low. Under a crooked old quince the widow knelt, pressed her palm flat to the earth and waited. Ada's hand went to her collar. The sprig was warm. Then she understood that the widow was not asking for the flower back, only for the name of whoever had planted the hedge. Ada said it aloud, her grandmother's own name, Maud, and the earth gave a small sigh and the stalk of blue bells lifted towards the light.

By evening the widow had filled both baskets and the damsons were left for the wasps. Ada kept the locket and the flower, and every late summer after that she walked up the hill path and said Maud's name under the quince, so the orchard kept her name.