Fine line black tattoo of a tulip, sprigs of baby's breath and a daisy tied in a bouquet on the inner forearm.

Tulip and wildflower bouquet on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single-needle style line drawing of a tulip, several sprigs of small clustered blossoms and a daisy-like flower, bound together with a loose tied ribbon at the stem ends. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, and the bouquet sits diagonally up the inner forearm against a plain light wall. The image is black ink on pale skin, with the sleeve of a dark top visible at the upper edge.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Tulip Flower Bouquet Daisy Sprig Ribbon

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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

Sit closer, the wind up here has teeth, and I have only the one voice left to lose. Mind the broken step, it has swallowed better men than you. Now, the Widow Hale's girl came up the hill road on the last morning of April with a bundle under her arm, and that bundle was the whole reason the gate of Cairn Mhor stood open for her when every other gate in the valley was barred.

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She had walked from the lower farms since before the bells, carrying a tulip she had cut from her mother's border, the one red thing the frost had spared. Round it she had gathered whatever the ditches gave her: sprigs of tiny white blossoms that smelled of rain, a daisy with its face turned up, and a loose stalk or two she could not name. She bound them with a strip torn from her own apron and tied the ends in a knot that would not hold for long, because she had been told the Captain of the Keep liked his gifts unfinished, so he would know they were not bought.

The Captain had not seen a living colour in three winters. He sat on the wall-walk with his back to the sun, and when she laid the flowers on the stone beside him he said nothing for so long that the crows came down to look. Then he picked up the daisy, turned it once between finger and thumb, and said his own mother had grown the same in a pot by a door that no longer existed.

That was the turn of it. The girl had come to beg bread for her brothers, and she went home that evening with a sack of grain, a promise of a cart in the morning, and the bouquet still standing in the Captain's cup, its ribbon trailing down the wall like a river that had lost its way.