Black and grey realism tattoo of a lioness wearing a crown with a pearl necklace and a rose below, on the inner forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Lioness with crown and rose on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A lioness face wearing an ornate crown with a jewelled band is tattooed on the forearm, with a pearl necklace draped below the chin. A large rose sits at the bottom of the piece, drawn with soft shading and fine detail. The work is entirely in black and grey, set against a black padded tattoo chair and a wooden floor.

Realism Forearm Lion Crown Rose Pearl Necklace

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The function room at the Bell Hotel smelled of floor polish and lukewarm gravy, and Sandra Pike was already telling the table she'd have known me anywhere. I stood by the urn with my name badge, Joanne Hale, printed in capitals by someone who had clearly never met me, and worked out how long I had to stay before the raffle.

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Leonie Dunn came in at quarter to eight, late the way she was always late for assembly, not because she was lost but because she liked the room to wait for her. She still had that stillness. At fifteen she had worn a cardboard crown covered in gold foil on Speech Day, and we had all been made to curtsey to it in the hall. Now she wore a grey suit and a single strand of pearls, and she moved between the tables touching shoulders and remembering names. When she reached me she said, "Joanne, you still owe me a rose," and laughed before I could ask what she meant.

In Year Nine she had been cast as the lioness in a school play about a royal hunt, and I had been given the rose, a paper one on a wire stem. She had insisted I hold it for the whole final scene because she was too proud to carry anything she couldn't wear. I had stood at the side of the stage with my palms sweating onto the wire while she roared at the back of the hall and the caretaker went looking for the fuse box.

She sat down beside me when the pudding came, and the pearls caught the light from the fake candles on the buffet. "My mum's," she said, touching them. "I wear them now because I stopped waiting to be handed things." Then she put her hand over mine on the tablecloth, and for the first time in thirty years I did not look for the exit.