Small colour tattoo of a carrot with green leafy top on the inner forearm, near the wrist, with an out-of-focus background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small carrot tattoo on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A small tattoo of a single carrot, with orange root, fine dark outline, and feathery green foliage at the top, runs down the inner forearm towards the wrist. The linework is thin and clean, with light orange fill and simple shading on the root. The background is softly blurred, with a patterned orange garment at the left edge and pale tones behind the arm.

Fine line Forearm Vegetable Leaves

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The last carrot in the lazarette had gone soft at the crown by the fortieth day out of Gravesend, and Tobias Keel, ship's cook on the barque Marion Ashby, turned it over in the lamplight as if it might tell him something. The crew were sour and their gums bled when they pressed them. Captain Hurd had ordered the rations counted twice a week, and Keel had counted them, and still he had kept this one back, wrapped in wet sacking behind the flour bins, because he had promised Ned Pryce, the youngest hand, that it would go on a plate beside his porridge once the fever broke.

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Ned's fever broke off Cape Horn, in a grey squall that sent the cups skating off the mess table. The boy lay propped on a sail bag and looked at the carrot a long while before he asked whether it could be planted instead. Keel laughed at him, then didn't. He cut the feathery top clean from the root, set it in a tin of sea-wet sand on the sill of the galley porthole, and watched the boy's face as the green fronds stood up, pale at first, then darker, leaning towards the light every morning like a dog waiting at a door.

The root stayed firm, though it shrank a little and its orange faded to the colour of old brass. By the time the Ashby ran in under the hills of Valparaíso in March, the tops had spread into a little fern of their own, and Ned was up on the rail with his coat buttoned wrong, shouting at the gulls. Keel wrapped the tin in a tarred canvas, carried it down the gangway under one arm, and left it on the windowsill of a chandler's shop on the Calle Serrano, where the owner's daughter promised to water it. He never learned whether it lived.