Black and grey line drawing of a ribcage with roses and leaves beneath a sunburst, with the word Virgo and a short quote, shown as a tattoo design.

Ribcage and roses with Virgo lettering

Botanical · Black and grey · Flash

The drawing shows an anatomical ribcage with a sunburst of radiating lines above it, and a cluster of roses and leaves hangs from its base, ending in a small scalloped motif. The word Virgo sits in serif capitals below, followed by a line of italic lettering. The linework is fine and precise, with stippled dots and hatched shading on the bones and foliage, and the design is entirely in black and grey on a white background.

Botanical Dotwork Ribcage Skeleton Rose Leaves Sunburst Dot Zodiac Lettering Quote

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You come down the cut at first light with the paint tin wedged between your knees, because your father always said a boat wants its roses finished before the frost. The lock-keeper at Corwell has left the bottom gate open, and the water below is the colour of weak tea, lit in long bars where the sun clears the poplars. Nobody else is awake. The narrowboat Tamsin Rae rides low behind you, her roof still bare from the winter, and you have thought about the roses for eleven months without once picking up a brush.

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You had meant to paint the doors first. Instead you kneel on the cabin top and mix the red with too much black, the way your mother did, and the first rose comes out lopsided, its petals folded like a fist. You scrape it off with a palette knife and try again. Leaves are easier. Leaves don't need to be anything but green and patient, and you work them in dark clusters down the side of the roof where the rain has been hardest.

A heron lifts off the far bank and the whole sky seems to tighten a little. You remember the doctor at Ashby saying that the feeling had a shape, that it sits lower than anyone expects, somewhere under the ribs where a cloth can't reach. You had not believed him. Now you watch the heron go and set the brush down on the lid of the tin, because your hand has started to shake and the roses need steadier work than that.

By the time the sun is full on the water you have done the last leaf, and at the base of the bouquet you paint the small scalloped edge the way your grandmother decorated her biscuit tins, a row of tight half-moons. Then you sit back on your heels. The roses are not good. They are yours. You climb down, lift the paddle on the lock, and let the boat ease forward into the light while the paint is still wet on the roof behind you.