Neo-traditional colour tattoo of a spherical droid with an orange ring above pale blue flowers and yellow leaves, with a black and grey moustache and 13 below, on a forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Spherical droid with blue flowers on a forearm

Neo-trad · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A neo-traditional tattoo shows a spherical droid with a domed head, antenna and orange ring detail, set among three pale blue flowers and yellow-green leaves. Bold black outlines define the forms, with soft grey shading on the droid's body and gentle highlights on the petals. Below, a black and grey moustache contains the number 13, and the arm fills most of the frame against a light background.

Neo-trad Forearm Droid Flower Leaves Moustache

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

It came over the stile on the Tuesday after the thaw, rolling the way a dropped apple rolls, and it stopped only when it met Mrs Hollis's hedge. Nobody in Little Wenning had a word for it. Mr Dunmore the postman said it was a boiler that had gone wrong, and the Pell boys said it was a wheel fallen from the moon, and both were proved wrong when it lifted a domed head, turned a single lens toward the church clock, and beeped twice.

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The village did what villages do, which was to bring it things. Gladys Tiller brought a saucer of milk. The schoolmaster brought a sum chalked on a slate, seven times thirteen, and the droid answered with a whistle that rose and fell like a question. Only old Ada Brine, who had buried a husband and two sons and no longer trusted anyone who arrived without a funeral, walked out to the far field with a jam jar of pale blue forget-me-nots and set them down in front of it.

The droid studied the flowers for a long while. Then it rolled in a slow circle, leaving a curl in the frost like the end of a moustache, and when it had finished, the blossoms were pressed neatly into the mud beneath its orange-ringed belly, arranged as carefully as a sewing pattern. Ada watched it trundle over the hill with the low sun behind it. By May the meadow was blue from hedge to brook, and nobody could say whether the flowers had come up on their own.

Ada kept one stem in a jar on her windowsill. Every thirteenth of March after that, a small grey dome would come rolling back over the stile, stop beside her gate, and wait with its lens turned up to the window until she brought it the flower.