Black and white photo of a black mandala tattoo on the upper arm of a person in a white crop top and denim shorts, with a straw hat beside them.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Mandala tattoo on upper arm

Geometric · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a person seated outdoors, cropped at the neck and thighs, with a circular mandala tattoo on the upper arm. The tattoo uses dark, solid linework and fine inner detail in a radial floral pattern. The composition centres on the tattoo, with a straw hat, layered necklaces and striped cushions in the background.

Geometric Upper arm Mandala Floral Necklace Bracelet

Find an artist for this

Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The windfalls have been lying in the long grass since Tuesday, and you are the one who has to gather them before the wasps find the sweet side of each one. Your grandfather's cart still smells of last year's press. He said nothing when you tipped the first basket in, only handed you the knife with the bone handle and nodded at the Bramley nearest the wall.

Keep reading

You cut each fruit across the middle, the way he taught you, because an apple will tell you what it is if you let it. Inside, the core opens into a star, five pale chambers around five black seeds, each set in its place as if someone drew it with a compass. You have seen that shape on the lid of the biscuit tin in the dresser, on the wheel of the cider press, in the lace your aunt pinned to the kitchen window. Every cut apple insists on it. Nothing in the orchard is off-centre if you look closely enough.

By afternoon the press is turning and the juice runs gold into the tub. Your cousin Maren, home from the city for the harvest, leans on the gate and asks why you never bother with the pretty sorts. You tell her the pretty sorts are for eating and the sharp ones make the cider mean something. She laughs and says you always talk like a seed catalogue, and you let her have that.

When the last barrel is bunged, you wipe the knife on your apron and find one seed stuck under your thumbnail, dark as a full stop. You press it into the soft earth at the foot of the wall and tell it to wait. Next autumn, you think, the star will come up on its own, and you will only need to cut the apple open to be certain.