Fine line black tattoo of a flowering botanical sprig with small blossoms and leaves on the inner forearm.

Sprig of flowers on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A slender stem rises up the inner forearm, carrying clusters of small five-petalled flowers, several buds and two pointed leaves at the base. The linework is fine and even, in single black ink with no shading. The design is set against plain pale skin and a grey wall, with the arm raised diagonally across the frame.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The Palais band had run through the same foxtrot four times by the time Eddie Marsh came to the cloakroom hatch, asking for his coat with a face that wanted something else. I handed it over. He stood there turning his cap in his hands while the sprig of blue flowers I'd pinned to my cardigan caught the light from the mirror ball.

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He asked whether they were real. I said they came off the bank behind the gasworks, where the council never cut anything back, and that my mother claimed they were the only thing in Blackpool that grew out of spite. He laughed a bit too loudly and asked for the last waltz. I said I'd think about it, which we both knew meant yes.

He went for the army in the spring. Before he left he came to the hatch once more with a clean handkerchief folded round a few stems he'd picked from the same bank, the leaves gone limp in the damp. He said to keep them somewhere dry. I pressed them between the pages of my mother's hymnal at the Psalms, the way she did with anything worth keeping.

The Palais still plays the last waltz at eleven on Saturdays. I stand at the hatch with the bell going and sort coats by their numbers. The letters came from Cyprus for a year, then they stopped, and nobody at the gasworks would tell me why. When I open the hymnal the blue has faded to the colour of washed slate, but the little clusters still hold their five petals, and I find I can't bring myself to shut it all the way.

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