Traditional colour tattoo of a large red rose with blue forget-me-nots and green leaves across a shoulder, with a vine and stars shown in a second side view.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Rose and forget-me-nots on a shoulder

Traditional · Shoulder · Colour · Photo

A large red rose with pale highlights and shaded petals sits on the shoulder, surrounded by clusters of blue five-petalled flowers with yellow centres and dark green leaves. Bold black outlines define the rose and flowers, with smooth red and blue shading. The lower panel shows a side view of the same shoulder with a thin black vine, green leaves and small stars continuing the design.

Traditional Shoulder Rose Forget-me-not Flower Leaves Vine Star

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the step, now, the cobbles are slick where the rain runs off the chapel roof. Right. Where was I? Ah, yes, the wedding at Hollin Fold, and Mercy Abbott wanting flowers that would still be standing when the speeches started.

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Her father rode to Kendal market for blue blooms, but the forget-me-nots had all gone by midday, bar one bunch some widow kept in a jam jar on her windowsill by the mill. Ada Thwaite wanted twopence and a promise that the bride would come and see her after. The father paid both. Ada said her husband had always claimed forget-me-nots meant somebody would keep you in mind when you were gone, and she had never found a better reason to grow anything.

The bride wanted a red rose at the heart of the arrangement, a big one, the sort that makes a man in the back pew lose his place in the hymn. Ada's nephew, a lad who could draw, sketched the whole thing on the back of a seed packet. He ran a thin black vine down from the rose, put green leaves along it like a dropped ribbon, and scattered a few small stars below for the folk who could not be there.

At the supper the groom's brother stood up, cleared his throat, and told everyone he had counted the blue flowers in the bouquet. Nine, he said, one for every year the couple had been courting, and one more for the widow who had kept them safe in a jar. Then he sat down, and the vicar poured the cider, and nobody in Hollin Fold has picked a flower off a windowsill without leaving a penny since.