Black ink drawing of a mandala dreamcatcher with dotted strands, beads, feathers and teardrop pendants, drawn in fine line style with no placement shown.

Mandala dreamcatcher line drawing

Fine line · Black and grey · Flash

A black ink drawing on white paper shows a circular mandala dreamcatcher at the top, with radiating petal and dot patterns inside concentric rings. Dotted strands hang from the base, strung with open and solid beads, two feathers and two dotted teardrop pendants. The linework is fine and even, with stippled shading in the teardrops and petals, and the drawing is shown in a slightly angled view.

Fine line Geometric Dreamcatcher Mandala Feather Bead Teardrop

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The cloakroom at the Regal Palais smelled of wet wool and Brylcreem, and I had been holding Mr Dacre's coat for forty minutes before he came back for it. He wanted a dreamcatcher, he said, something to hang over the bandstand so the drummer would stop waking the whole terrace with his nightmares. I told him a drummer's nightmares were none of the hall's business. He said everything in a dance hall was the hall's business, and slid a tin of pins across the counter.

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I made it on the Thursday after closing. I bent a ring of cane, wound it with lace from my mother's drawer, then worked a mandala into the middle with thread, circles inside circles, petals spreading out like the ripples past the pier. The strands I hung from the spare chandelier drops: seed pearls, jet beads, a few glass ones the colour of weak tea. Ada from the kitchen pulled two grey feathers from a pigeon she swore had died of old age, and I tied them on with a dressmaker's knot.

On the Saturday the band struck up the last waltz and somebody flung the side doors open to let the sea air in. The strands swung, the beads ticked against each other, and the teardrop nearest the door turned slowly on its thread. Mr Dacre stopped mid-bar and looked up at it as though he had seen someone he knew across the floor. He didn't say who. He just counted the beat again, softer.

I took the web down that night and put it in the cloakroom drawer under the spare tickets. The drummer slept through until the summer, and I still carry one of the jet beads in my coat pocket, cool and smooth as the bottom of a glass.