Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Red rose on a shoulder blade
Realism · Shoulder · Colour · Photo
A large realistic rose in deep red and crimson, with dark shading in the centre petals and folds. Its leaves are rendered in grey and black with soft highlights and visible veining. The tattoo sits on the upper back over the shoulder blade, photographed close up with a plain, slightly out-of-focus background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Marion had kept the rose alive on the fourteenth-floor balcony of Wrexley House for eleven years, in a plastic tub she'd hauled up the stairwell the summer the lift broke for the third time. Dennis bought the cutting from a man with a van outside Barking station and swore it was the red one from the catalogue. It never flowered properly until the year he left. Now it came every June, the bloom opening slowly and folding in on itself like a letter being read twice.
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On the Tuesday, the lad from flat 31, Sol, knocked with his phone in his hand and asked if she'd sell him a bloom. He had a girl at the bus depot who liked roses, he said, and the florist on the high street wanted a fortune. Marion looked at him for a while. Then she went out and cut the best one, the deepest, the one whose centre had gone almost black, and wrapped it in the Evening Standard.
"Bring the paper back," she said. "And the stalk. I want to see if it takes." He laughed, not understanding, and she didn't explain. The thing about roses was that they needed hard cutting to come back thicker, and she had spent eleven years learning how much she could take off before the plant gave up.
That evening the leaves in the tub had gone grey at the edges with mildew. Marion mixed washing-up liquid into a jug of water and sprayed them one by one, the way Dennis used to on Sundays, humming a tune she could no longer finish. When the light went orange over the estate she sat down beside the pot and waited for the next bud to show its colour.
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