Coloured flash drawing of two stylised pink and yellow mushrooms with dripping lines and two banners reading feed your head, shown on a tan background with no body placement.

Two mushrooms with feed your head banners

Colour · Flash

The drawing shows two stylised mushrooms with pink and yellow caps, patterned gills and long dripping lines running down from them. Three pale banners across the stems read feed your head in dark lettering. Fine black linework and soft gradient shading sit on a plain tan background, with the design centred and filling the frame.

Mushroom Banner Lettering Drip

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, you lot, and mind the goat's tail in the embers. The grove above Sarvar was nothing like the olive terraces down by the road. Its trees leaned in close, and beneath them the ground was freckled with caps the colour of a sunset left out too long, pink on top and yellow where the light caught the edges. The old women called them the feeding caps. You picked them with a bronze knife, carried them home in linen, and did not touch them before the moon was full, because the caps would feed your head whether you asked them to or not.

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Thessa, the potter's girl, did not wait for the moon. She was seventeen and sure of herself, and she ate two caps at dusk while the swifts were still screaming over the roofs. At first the grove only seemed brighter. Then the gills under the caps began to hum, a low sound like her mother singing with her mouth shut, and pale sap ran down the bark in lines that looked like ink poured slowly. She followed those lines downhill, because they seemed to know the way, and she heard her father calling her name from somewhere beyond the spring. She ran until her sandals were soaked and her throat was raw.

When the sky went grey she found herself at the foot of the same oak she had started from, with the linen cloth still knotted at her waist. Her father was not at the spring. He was on the road with a donkey and a cart of broken jars, calling her name as he had been all night, because the grove had only been giving her back her own voice. She sat down in the wet leaves and watched the drops fall from the branches, one for every time she had been called, and the last one landed on her open palm, cold and clear.