Traditional style flower tattoo with red petals and green leaves on a forearm, with a small dark tattoo on the back of the hand, and a wristwatch worn on the wrist.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Traditional flower forearm tattoo with wristwatch

Traditional · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A close overhead view of a wrist and forearm wearing a silver wristwatch with a white dial and mesh strap. The forearm carries a bold tattoo of a red flower with yellow centre and green leaves, with solid outlines and filled colour. A small dark black ink design sits on the back of the hand, and white sneakers are visible at the bottom of the frame.

Traditional Forearm Hand Flower Leaves Watch Sneaker

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain has found the gap in your awning again, and it runs off the canvas in a thin bright line onto the bucket of poppies you bought from a grower in Kent at four this morning. Half eleven on a Saturday in Shudehill, and the crowd slides past the stall like water down a drain. Nobody stops for flowers this red in weather this grey. You check the time on the watch you bought from a pawnbroker on Oldham Street, its white face and thin mesh strap still stiff from the shop box, and it tells you what you already know: four bunches sold and no breakfast.

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Ivor from the fish stall leans over the partition, smelling of brine and peppermints. "Shift them cheap or they'll drown," he says. You tell him poppies don't drown, they sulk, which is different. A lad in a school blazer comes splashing along the wet slabs with a coin in each fist. He wants one for his nan, he says, the one with the yellow middle, because she reckons it looks like the sun got tangled in a hedge. He counts out his coins twice and comes up twenty pence short. You take what he has and wrap the stem in newspaper anyway.

By six the wind has turned and Ivor is shouting about the tide tables. You tip the bucket into the crate, and a single poppy drops onto the concrete, its petals spreading in a puddle like spilt ink. You leave it there and start pulling down the awning.

The lad comes back as the last van pulls away, soaked to the collar, holding twenty pence out flat on his palm. He asks if you'll keep one back for tomorrow. You set the watch by the clock on the fish market wall, tuck a stem under the canvas where the rain can't reach, and tell him you will.