Fine line hot air balloon tattoo with red and orange flowers on the inner forearm near the wrist, against a plain white background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Hot air balloon with flowers on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A small hot air balloon is drawn in fine black linework, with its envelope decorated by petal shapes in red and orange. A trail of tiny red flowers and dots drifts down and away from the basket. The tattoo sits on the inner wrist and forearm against a plain white background, with soft, even lighting.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Hot air balloon Flower Petal Basket Dot

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

By the time the balloon came down on the platform roof, the flowers had already started falling off it. You noticed them first, a red scatter on the wet slates running from the chimney stack towards the down platform, as if someone had been dropping petals to find their way home. Mr Okonedo from the booking office swore it had come over the Pennines that morning, though nobody had seen a launch from the moors since the summer fête.

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You went up the iron ladder with a coil of rope over your shoulder. The envelope was patched in panels, each one a different cloth: a tablecloth with cherries, a strip of blue curtain, something that had once been a christening bonnet. Red blossoms were stitched across the crown in a loose chain, and where the thread had worn, the wind had picked the stitches loose and carried them off down the line in twos and threes.

The basket held one thing, a punched ticket for the 7.14 to Leeds, dated a week ago. On the back, in pencil nearly rubbed away, someone had written: wait for me at the level crossing. You sat on the rim for a long time, watching the 7.14 slide out under the bridge with its lamps lit, and understood that the flowers were not blowing off at all. They were being left behind, one at a time, for whoever was following.

When the next train drew in, you tied the rope to the ring, pocketed the ticket and ran the length of the platform. At the last carriage a woman in a green coat was already waving a glove at you through the glass, and the petals on the slates behind you lifted all at once and followed you down the line.