Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Small bumblebee on the wrist
Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A small bumblebee is tattooed on the wrist, shown in profile with its body, legs and translucent wings. The linework is fine and the striped abdomen and wings are built up with soft grey shading. The ink is black and grey against pale skin, with a dark green leafy background filling the rest of the frame.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The fiddles are sawing through the third reel when the bumblebee drifts in through the open double doors of the Forge Hall, bumping along the rafters as if it has forgotten the way out. You are standing by the trestle table with a paper cup of cider gone warm, and Dolly Pritchard is already tugging your sleeve, insisting the floor is for couples and you are not allowed to stand there sulking.
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You let her pull you into the set. Hands go up and down the line, boots thump the boards, and the bee dips low over the dancers, looping between the lamps. Nobody else pays it any mind. Then it hangs in the air in front of you, tilting its striped body from side to side, and you laugh, because it seems to be doing the caller's step: a shuffle, a turn, a shiver of wings, and back again.
Dolly says it's a waggle, the way bees tell each other where the flowers are. Her grandad used to say it, back before the orchard was sold off. The bee holds the figure a moment longer, then peels away through the doorway and out into the dusk. You follow, cup still in hand, past the parked cars and the stile and into the lane, where the hedge is heavy with honeysuckle and the sweetness is so thick it stops you in your tracks.
The bee is already working a bloom in the hedge, its whole body pressed into the flower, then up, then down again, as if it is waiting for you to catch up. You stand there a while with the fiddles faint behind you. Then you step off the tarmac into the long grass, because somebody has to learn the steps.
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