Black and grey botanical tattoo of a pumpkin with a leaf and tendril on top and scattered leaves at its base, on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pumpkin with leaves on a forearm

Botanical · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A shaded pumpkin sits on the forearm, with a small leaf and curling tendril at the stem and a cluster of loose leaves gathered beneath it. The linework is fine and the body of the pumpkin is built up with soft grey shading and darker creases between its ribs. The design is centred on a plain skin background, with the sleeve of a striped top and dark trousers visible at the edges of the frame.

Botanical Forearm Pumpkin Leaves Tendril Vine Autumn

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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

Mind the step, love, it's worse than it looks. Sit down on that crate and I'll tell you about the year the Harcourt boys stole Mrs Pargeter's prize marrow and got it stuck in the signal box window. You want the proper version, not the one they tell in the Crown. Right. Back then the station master kept a kitchen garden behind the waiting room, and every September he'd lift his best pumpkins onto the platform bench to be weighed before the London train. Round as cartwheels they were, ribbed like a lady's good stays, with their little curled stalks still warm from the sun.

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That autumn one pumpkin went missing the night before the show. The porter swore blind he'd seen a lantern bobbing along the cinder path, and a trail of fallen leaves all the way to the goods yard, pressed flat as coins. Nobody wanted to say what they were thinking, which was that the pumpkin had simply walked off. Pumpkins do that when the fog comes in off the reservoir, or so my mother said, and she never told a lie in her life that wasn't worth telling.

They found it at dawn, sat square in the middle of the empty up platform, dew on its skin and leaves gathered round its base like a skirt. The station master took off his cap and said nothing for a full minute. Then he picked it up, weighed it in his two hands, and carried it home himself. Best of the season, the judges agreed, and the guard still tells anyone who'll listen that a fair few of them were eyeing it for a lantern. Now then, your tea's going cold on that bench. Drink up before the five-fifteen comes through.