Small purple botanical tattoo of a cluster of flowers on the outer forearm of a woman wearing a light blue top and denim shorts.

Purple floral cluster on a forearm

Botanical · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A cluster of three or four purple flower heads with small buds and stems sits on the outer forearm. The petals are shaded in soft violet and lavender tones, with darker accents giving them depth. The tattoo is framed against a wooden fence and a light blue top, with the woman's hand resting at her side.

Botanical Forearm Flower Bud Stem Petal

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The tin had gone orange at the seams, so Ruth used the bread knife to lever the lid, and what came out was a smell of cold earth and old newspaper. Inside, wrapped in pages from a 1978 Farmers Weekly, lay a row of knobbled brown tubers, dry as biscuit and no bigger than walnuts. Her mother had written on the lid in marker pen: WINDFLOWERS, DON'T LET THEM DRY OUT. They already had.

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Frost had silvered the yard again overnight, and the polytunnel's torn skin rattled in the wind off the moor. Ruth filled the enamel bowl from the kettle, lukewarm, and dropped the tubers in one by one, watching them sink then bob. The instructions on the old seed packet said soak for twelve hours. She gave them a whole day, then a night, because February had nothing else to offer and the kitchen was too quiet with the radio off.

By the Tuesday three had swollen fat as conkers and two had gone soft, so she threw those on the compost heap for the crows. The rest she potted into trays of peat, pressing each one in with her thumb the way her mother had shown her when Ruth was nine and cross about cold fingers. The trays went on the sill above the sink, where the light came grey and then, slowly, less grey. Her brother rang from Leeds about the auction date. She let it ring out.

In the third week of March a green point split at the top of one pot, then another, and on the twenty-ninth a flower came open, violet at the rim and nearly black where it met the stem, with a ruff of stamens like a pinched match. Ruth stood at the window with the kettle cooling behind her. She cut the stem with the kitchen scissors, carried it to the table and set it in a jam jar beside the calendar, where February was still circled in her mother's handwriting.