Black-grey vine swirls with a pink flower and small dots running from the ankle across the top of a foot, in a botanical style.

Vine swirls and pink flower on ankle and foot

Botanical · Ankle · Mixed · Photo

A bare foot and ankle rest on a white mesh fabric, with a tattoo of scrolling vines and curls running from the ankle down across the top of the foot. A single pink flower with red shading sits on the ankle, while the vines and curls are drawn in grey and black lines with soft shading and a few dots. The composition is centred on the foot, with the toes and painted pink toenails visible at the bottom of the frame.

Botanical Ankle Other Vine Swirl Flower Foot Ankle Dot

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, you lot, the fire's only warm on one side. This is about Mab Tollery and the vine that would not stay on the wall. In the kingdom of Harrowmere, where the rain comes sideways off the fen, the old queen kept a garden of grey stone, and nothing grew in it but cabbages and sorrow. Then one spring a green shoot pushed up beside the water pump, and by midsummer it had climbed the steps, looped the sundial, and set off down the path toward the kitchen door.

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The steward wanted it cut. The queen, who had never liked anything that did not ask permission, said to wait until it flowered. So Mab, who scrubbed pots and talked to the cats, took to sitting on the bottom step each evening. The vine did not climb straight. It turned back on itself in little spirals, doubled round a dropped thimble and a stone, as if it were counting them. Each curl held a bead of dew, and none of the dew ever dried.

On the last night of August the steward came with his shears. Mab stood up in front of the sundial with her arms out. He asked her why. She said the vine had walked all the way to the kitchen door, and nobody walks that far for a cabbage. The steward went red, put the shears away, and went to bed.

In the morning a single pink flower had opened at the vine's throat, and the queen came out in her nightgown to look at it. Nobody in Harrowmere has ever agreed on what it was for. The cats still sleep on the bottom step, the dew still sits in the curls, and the kitchen door has stayed green, because nobody has had the heart to paint over the path.