Two small colour tattoos of a peach and a purple plum sit on the ankles of two crossed feet, each with a green leaf and black outline.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Peach and plum tattoos on two ankles

Ankle · Colour · Photo

Two feet are crossed over a black and white patterned bedding. A small peach with an orange and yellow body and a green leaf sits on the outer ankle of the left foot, and a purple plum with a green leaf sits on the heel and ankle of the right foot. Both fruits have bold black outlines and soft shading, and the warm and cool colours stand out against the pale skin.

Ankle Fruit Leaf

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 fruit stall at Harrowby Summer Fair had always sat between my mother's tent and the candyfloss van, and for thirty years the peaches and the plums had argued over which was sweeter. My mother swore by her Rochester freestones. Old Dennis Pask, who ran the plum stall across the grass, swore by his Victorias, and neither would let a child taste the other's fruit without a sermon.

Keep reading

The summer I turned fourteen, Dennis's grandson Col came to help with the crates. He had a habit of rolling a plum between his palms until the bloom came off on his shirt, and he never once looked at the peaches. I thought him rude. He thought me rude for wrinkling my nose at his fruit. We spent three days trading insults over the boxes, and on the fourth I found a plum wrapped in a paper napkin tucked under my pile of peaches, with a note in pencil: Taste it before you judge it.

I did. It was tart at the skin and soft and dark as velvet near the stone, and I told him so, which was the worst thing I could have done, because he went red and grinned like he'd won a bet. My mother watched us from the tent and said nothing, which for her was a kindness. By dusk the two stalls had pushed their tables together under one striped awning, and the sign Dennis had painted for the plums was propped against a peach crate.

When the fair packed up that autumn, Col pressed a dry plum stone into my palm and said it would grow into something if I was patient. It still sits on my windowsill. The peaches ripen first, my mother says, and the plums hold on longer, and we have never once agreed on which of us is right.