Black fine line drawing of a lotus flower on a wavy stem that ends in a spiral, with a small dot above the bloom.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Lotus on a stem with spiral base

Fine line · Black and grey · Flash

A single-line drawing of a lotus flower with its petals open at the top of a thin, looping stem. The stem curls into a spiral at the base, and a small dot sits above the flower. The linework is uniform black on a plain white background, with no shading or added colour.

Fine line Botanical Lotus Flower Stem Spiral Dot

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down, sit down, and mind the wasps on that windfall. It's late August, the Pearmain trees are bowing under their fruit, and every old hand in Little Hadley will tell you the same about the bottom corner of the orchard, where the wall gives out into rushes. There's a pond there. Nobody dug it and nobody planted in it, but something came up all the same.

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Hester Vane kept the orchard after her father, and she walked the rows each evening with a basket on her hip, counting. One dusk she heard a sound from the water like a pump being worked slowly, and she went down through the rushes to find a lotus opening white at the edge of the pond. Its stem did not run straight. It looped and doubled back on itself, down and round, like a length of garden hose coiled by a careful man, until the last of it sank into the mud and wound tight into a spiral no one could see the end of.

She took hold of the stem to pull it free, and it would not give. It only tightened, turn by turn, the way a watch spring does when you wind it too far. So she sat on the bank with her basket and waited for the moon, and she told the flower what she had been counting all summer, which was nothing much: apples, mostly, and the years since her father's funeral. Above the bloom a single dark seed rose out of the water and hung there like a full stop.

She never did pick the rest of the crop. The Pearmains fell into the long grass and went soft, the wasps grew fat, and the orchard became the untidiest it had been in a century. Still, every morning there was a fresh ring on the pond, and every morning the stem had wound one turn deeper. Her hands smelt of pear for the rest of her life, and the dot above the lotus never once went out.