Mandala tattoo on shoulder and upper arm
Dotwork · Shoulder · Black and grey · Photo
A large mandala tattoo with a radial centre and layered petal shapes covers the shoulder and extends down the upper arm. The design is built from fine linework and stippled dotwork shading, with bold black outlines on the outer petals. The image is in black and grey, and the blurred background and shallow focus keep attention on the tattoo.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The rain has found the gap in the awning again, and it drips steadily onto the tray of pocket watches you laid out before seven. Nobody buys watches on a wet Tuesday in February. Across the aisle, the man selling secondhand lino tugs his cap and says the council will have the whole row moved by Easter. You nod and keep turning the little brass wheels with your thumb, listening to the gears tick under the drum of water on canvas.
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The watch that matters is not in the tray. It sits inside your coat, wrapped in a yellow duster, a movement whose face is cut with a ring of petals folded round a central boss. Every line is so fine that you had to borrow your nephew's magnifier to be sure of it. The old horologist who gave it to you said it kept time for nobody, because it was built to show the hours turning back on themselves rather than running on. You never understood that. You understood the petals, though, and how each one repeats the last like a held breath.
A woman stops at the stall around noon, her umbrella dripping onto your shoes. She holds the watch up to the grey light and asks what it is worth. You tell her the truth, which is nothing you could say out loud on this pavement. She laughs, folds it back into its duster, and says her mother owned one exactly like it, which is impossible, and you both know it.
When the stalls begin to pack up, the rain thins to a mist and the lamps come on, doubling in the puddles. You unwrap the watch one last time. The petals are sharper in the dusk, and the central boss throws back a light that seems to come from somewhere underneath it. You close the duster, tuck the bundle under your arm, and walk home the long way, past the shuttered shops, counting the petals as you go.
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