Small black and grey tattoo of a detailed flower with layered petals on the inner wrist and lower forearm, photographed against a white blanket.

Small flower tattoo on the wrist

Botanical · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small tattoo of a flower with layered, pointed petals and a shaded centre sits on the wrist and lower forearm. The linework is fine and the petals are built up with hatching and light shading. The photograph is in black and white against a dark background and a pale blanket, with the tattoo placed near the centre of the frame.

Botanical Fine line Forearm Flower Petal Wrist

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You arrive at Gull Rest in the last week of September, when the boarding house has already started shutting its rooms one at a time, like a shop pulling down its shutters. Mrs Harkness takes your case from you on the step and carries it up the stairs herself, two at a time, grumbling about the damp in the hall. Her apron pocket holds a tin of drawing pins, a pencil stub and a bus timetable she stopped consulting years ago.

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The back bedroom looks over the promenade rail to a grey sea that never quite decides where it ends. Low on the wallpaper beside the window, someone has drawn a daisy in biro, petals stacked in tight pointed rows, the centre gone over so many times the paper has worn thin. 'Girl who had this room before you,' Mrs Harkness says from the doorway. 'Drew one every night the wind got up. Said it kept her from counting the waves.' She does not say where the girl went, and you do not ask.

You learn the town through its tides and its bakery queue. The pier lights come on at four and the gulls are fighting over chips by half past. Most nights you add a petal of your own beside hers, and the wallpaper slowly fills with the two of you, rows of pointed shapes crowding the skirting board. In February Mrs Harkness brings up a biscuit tin of postcards, all sent from a town further up the coast, all signed with one initial and nothing else.

In March you stop counting the petals. On a Sunday you pack your case, leave the key on the hall table beside the drawing pins, and take the first train north. The last flower on the wall is still unfinished, and you leave it that way on purpose, so whoever comes next has somewhere to start.