Watercolour-style pink flowers with black stems and splashes of ink tattooed across a person's upper back.

Pink watercolour flowers across a back

Botanical · Back · Colour · Photo

A photograph of a person's upper back showing three pink flower blooms on thin dark stems, with loose splashes and drips of ink around them. The petals are painted with soft edges and bleeding pink and magenta washes, with small orange and black accents at the centres. The composition runs diagonally from the upper shoulder area down towards the lower back, with the largest bloom near the top.

Botanical Back Flower Bloom Stem Splash Petal Watercolour

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mrs Ada Pring had kept the lost property office at Carrow Junction for thirty-one years, and in all that time nobody had ever claimed the tin. It turned up under a bench on platform two in October, a flat cocoa tin with a dented lid and a rubber band gone brittle around it. She opened it in the office with the kettle on. Inside were twelve pans of watercolour, most worn down to crescents, and a brush bent flat at the tip. The pink had been used hardest. Someone had painted the same three flowers over and over on scraps of ledger paper, each one looser than the last, until the final sheets were mostly water and nerve. A folded timetable was tucked in the lid with one train circled in pencil: 6.12, platform four.

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Each morning for a week she stood on platform four at 6.12 with the tin in her coat pocket. Nobody came who looked like a painter. Instead a boy with a bicycle leant against the pillar and asked what the flowers were called. Ada said she didn't know, only that they bled when you touched them with water. He said that was the best thing he'd heard all week, and he rode off before she could tell him the rest, which was that she had started to dream in pink.

On the eighth morning the train pulled out with its doors open, and the tin's owner had not come. Ada dampened the last brush with her thermos water, touched it to the old green tiles of the platform wall, and watched a bloom open in the wet. Magenta ran downward in a slow, unhurried stream, pooling round the drain like a stem that had decided to grow sideways. By the time the next train rattled in, the paint had dried to the colour of a sky just before dawn, and nobody on the platform could say who had painted it.