Black line tattoo of a rose vine with buds and leaves across a woman's shoulder and upper arm, in a botanical style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Rose vine on a shoulder

Botanical · Shoulder · Black and grey · Photo

A climbing vine of roses, rosebuds and leaves runs from the top of the shoulder down the upper arm. The tattoo is drawn in black linework with fine detail on the petals and leaves, and some light shading. The photograph is in colour, with the ink showing as black against the skin, and the subject is framed from behind so that the tattoo is the focus.

Botanical Fine line Shoulder Upper arm Rose Rosebud Vine Leaves Flower Plant

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The cutting had travelled four hundred miles in a Thermos flask wrapped in a wet tea towel, and by the time Marjorie Penhale reached the Coyote Wells motel it had shed two leaves and kept one bud the colour of old brass. She stood in the car park with the engine ticking behind her and looked at the cinderblock wall where the owner had promised a patch of ground. Dale Rusk came out of the office wiping his hands on his jeans and said roses were weeds with better manners, then showed her a strip of sand between the ice machine and the laundry door.

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She planted it at six the next morning, before the heat got serious. For a week she carried water from the laundry sink in a yoghurt tub, morning and evening, and talked to it the way her mother had talked to tomatoes in Kent. Dale pretended not to watch. He stopped pretending when a lorry driver asked him about the pale thing trying to climb the drainpipe, and he had no answer except to say it was nothing of his.

By October the vine had found the chain-link fence, then the barbed wire along the top of it, and then the sign for the diner, which it wrapped with a tangle of thorny stems. Rosebuds opened at dusk and closed by ten. Travellers photographed them on their phones and asked whether the owner was the gardener, and Dale began saying yes, with a little shrug.

Marjorie left in November with a jam jar of cuttings packed in damp newspaper and a note taped to the office till. Keep them wet, it read. It'll climb whatever you give it. The next spring Dale found the first flower open at dawn, its petals already catching the sun, and he stood with the hose in his hand for a long time before he turned the water on.