Colour tattoo of a mandala ringed by cartoon Nelson Muntz faces, shown in two photos on a forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Nelson Muntz mandala on a forearm

Geometric · Forearm · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows a central mandala of purple, teal and red petals, surrounded by several orange cartoon faces resembling Nelson Muntz from The Simpsons. The linework is bold and dark, with flat fills and simple shading on the cartoon heads. Two side-by-side photographs show the forearm against a dark background, with the bright orange and purple colours standing out against the skin.

Geometric Forearm Mandala Cartoon character Flower

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

By the third week of August the Bramleys are dropping faster than anyone can gather them, and the wasps have long since worked out the rest. You are up the ladder in the old Pennick orchard, sleeves shoved past the elbow, when Ray Dunning's youngest comes swaggering along the headland with an empty bucket and a laugh like a car alarm. Ha-ha, still up there, are you? Going to fall out of that tree any minute? You tell him not yet and reach for the next branch.

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He doesn't go. He drops the bucket by the trunk, kicks at the windfalls and sets about arranging them in a ring on the grass, bruised side up, because he says it's a dare and he has never lost one. You watch him from above, the pink cheeks and the pointed chin, shoving fruit into a circle with the flat of his trainer. Wasps lift off the brown ones and settle again. Every time he steps back to admire his work he laughs at it, loud enough to startle the rooks out of the poplars.

By noon the ring is finished, and it isn't a ring any more. The drops have spun themselves into petals around one hard green apple at the centre, and the wasps walk the spokes like hands on a clock. You come down the ladder slowly, because you have seen this shape before, painted on the lid of your grandmother's tin, and the boy is still laughing when he notices your face has gone quiet. Who taught you to draw that, he asks. Nobody, you say. It was always there under the leaves.

He leaves the bucket behind. On his way out he takes the one unbruised apple from the middle of the ring, tosses it once in his palm and laughs all the way down the headland. You fill the bucket anyway, one windfall at a time, and the ring stays on the grass until the wasps have carried it off.