Black dotwork mandala flower tattoo split across the soles of two bare feet, with a Geometric and Dotwork style on the foot.

Mandala flower tattoo across both soles

Dotwork · Other · Black and grey · Photo

Two bare feet are shown soles-up, with a single black mandala-style flower design split so that one half sits on each foot. The petals are built from fine outlines filled with stippled dots, and a central circular lattice of thin lines sits within the bloom. The ink is black on skin tone, and the close, even framing shows the full design clearly.

Dotwork Geometric Other Mandala Flower Feet

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rose window at Kilbride had lost its eastern half to a winter gale before my grandmother was born, so the village only talked about the western half, as if the other had never been. Uncle Tam swept the nave for the Trust on Saturdays, and I went along for the bun he bought at the gate. That spring he handed me a roll of brown paper and a stub of charcoal and said the Trust wanted a record before the damp got into the last of the tracery.

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I worked on my knees with the paper pressed flat against the pitted stone. Every petal had been picked out with a point, so the surface came up in tiny dots, and the lattice at the heart was no thicker than a thread of cotton. Where the charcoal caught the dots they turned black, like the pepper my mother shook over the broth. In the vestry I found a loose ledger, a glazier's order from 1789, and in its margin a sketch of the missing half, drawn by someone who had clearly learned the pattern by counting petals on his fingers.

The two halves did not agree. The ledger drawing had its rim one petal short, and its lattice sat a few degrees off true. Tam said the old man had been hurrying for the Michaelmas fair. I did not believe him. I laid my rubbing of the western half over the ledger sketch and held both up to the window, and the light came through the empty east arch and showed me the true angle, the one where the centre lines ran straight into the grid of the missing half.

I took the rubbing home and pinned it above the sink. Each morning I look at the centre first, that small knot of lines, and count the petals out to the edge where the stone stops and the sky begins, the way the glazier must have counted his.