Close-up of a small black outlined flower tattoo with red fill on the inner ear, with a gem stud piercing set in its centre.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small flower on the inner ear

Other · Mixed · Photo

A small flower with a bold black outline and red fill sits on the inner rim of an ear. A clear gem stud piercing sits in the centre of the flower, and a silver hoop earring hangs below the ear. The photograph is a close, evenly lit view with the rest of the ear and hair softly out of focus.

Other Flower Gem

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You spot her across the village hall, past the trestle table of warm white wine and the sausage rolls nobody admits to buying. Thirty years since Bramhall Lane Primary, and she still walks as if she owns the corridor. The paper name badge on her cardigan reads Dawn Pemberton in felt tip, with a small smiley face beside it that you suspect is hers.

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You remember the dare. Year Six, the geranium pot on Mrs Hollis's windowsill, the red petals you two pressed flat inside the atlas. You were only supposed to take one bloom. Dawn took the whole flower head and tucked it behind her ear like a flamenco dancer, and it stayed there all the way down Crofton Road until it wilted into a brown curl by the bus shelter. Mrs Hollis never found out. You never told.

Dawn sees you and crosses the room with her hand already out, then stops, laughs, and says you still pull the same face when you are about to say something rude. She turns her head towards the strip light above the urn, and a small clear stone catches the glare. It sits where the heart of a flower would be, the red fill gone a little soft at the edges, the black outline as sharp as ever. Someone has pinned a silver hoop beneath it that swings when she laughs.

"Still got that geranium?" she asks. You tell her no. She shrugs and says she has, sort of, and that it has been living somewhere on her body for twenty years, waiting for someone to notice. You take a sausage roll you do not want, and for the rest of the evening you keep catching sight of that bright little stone, steady as a dropped penny, every time she turns to see who is coming through the door.