Black linework flash design of a slender vertical stem with seven daisy-like flowers in fine line botanical style, shown on a white background with no body part visible.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Vertical sprig of daisies

Fine line · Black and grey · Flash

A single slender stem runs vertically through the image, carrying seven small daisy-like flowers that alternate slightly left and right along its length. The flowers are drawn in fine black outline with light hatching in the petals and centres, and the stem tapers toward the bottom. The design sits centred on a plain white background in greyscale, with no body part visible.

Fine line Botanical Daisy Flower Stem Sprig Botanical

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The cloakroom at the Ardmore smelled of wet wool and Brylcreem, and by ten o'clock on a Saturday the hooks behind me sagged under coats nobody would reclaim until dawn. I kept a tin of drawing pins in the drawer and a pencil behind my ear, and I knew every regular by the shape of their hat.

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Dolly Harrow came in every week with a sprig of daisies pinched from the verge on Coronation Road, and every week she asked me to count them with her. Seven flowers on one stem, bent a little at each joint where the heads nodded left, then right, as if they were trying to see past each other into the hall. 'He loves me,' she'd say, plucking, and I'd say the next one, and so on down the stalk until the last flower gave her the answer she'd come for.

Tonight she came in without the sprig. She stood at my hatch with her coat already open and said Frank had asked her to dance the last waltz in the big room, under the mirror ball, and she'd said yes before she could be sensible. 'Count for me anyway,' she said, and laid the stalk on the counter, the stem gone brown at the bottom where it had sat in her handbag all week. I counted. Seven. Then I counted again, slower, the way you do when you don't want the answer to be the one you already know.

The last flower was wilted but whole, and I told her it was a loving sort of number, which was a lie and she knew it. She laughed, took her ticket, and went out into the lights. I pinned the stalk to the corkboard above the hooks, between a lost glove and the Sunday bus timetable, and left it there for the rest of the season.