Black and grey dotwork mandala lotus tattoo with dotted line chains across a woman's underbust, shown in a monochrome photo with her hands resting on her chest.

Mandala lotus underbust tattoo

Dotwork · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey dotwork lotus mandala sits across the underbust, with layered petals, a dense stippled centre and a bold outlined scalloped border. Fine dotted lines drop in swags below it, ending in small diamond shapes. The monochrome photograph is tightly framed on the torso, with the subject's hands and a dark top around the tattoo.

Dotwork Geometric Botanical Chest Mandala Lotus Dotted line Diamond Chain

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The snow shut Gallow Pass on the Tuesday, and by Thursday the only guests left at the Lantern were a silversmith in room four and a brindle dog nobody had claimed. Her name was Iris Vane. She came down to the kitchen each evening with a satchel of seed pearls and a roll of waxed thread, and she spread everything across my scrubbed table as if she owned the place for a week.

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She worked by the lamp with a pair of tweezers, setting dots along the thread in little drops that swung between two silver pins. Every bead was a breath, she told me, and you had to count them or the line went crooked. I asked what the chain was for. She said it was for a woman in Cold Ashby who had asked for something that would hold still when everything else moved, and she laughed when I said that sounded like a poor thing to ask a silversmith.

On the seventh night the frost grew on the inside of the kitchen window. It came in the shape of a flower, petals stacked like folded paper, a dense knot of white at its centre. I reached for my cloth to wipe it away, and Iris caught my wrist. Her grandmother, she said, had drawn the same flower on every pane of the workhouse in Cold Ashby, and nobody ever scrubbed it off, because it was the one thing in the building that was not counting anything.

The thaw came on the Sunday with a noise like a shelf giving way. The road opened, and Iris left before breakfast. She had hung the finished chain on the nail by the back door, twenty-two drops of pearl catching the light. When I went to look at the window I found the flower had melted into a row of clear beads running down the glass, and I counted them twice before I left them where they were.