Watercolour-style tattoo on a forearm of a leafy sprig outlined in fine black line, with pink, blue and yellow washes and a blue triangle at the base.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Watercolour sprig and triangle on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A fine black line traces a slender sprig with leaves and small dots, rising from a blue triangle at the bottom. Loose pink, blue, purple and yellow washes sit around the linework, giving a soft, painterly effect. The design runs vertically along the inner forearm against a plain light skin background.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Sprig Leaves Triangle Feather Dot

Find an artist for this

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

The tin had come up from the cargo hold with a label in Mirela's handwriting that said lettuce, and Ines knew it was not lettuce the moment she tore the lid. Inside, wrapped in a sheet of pressed paper, sat a blue ceramic triangle no bigger than a thumbnail, and rising from its point a single black stem no thicker than thread.

Keep reading

She set it in the north bay under the violet lamps, where the beds were tuned for kale and tomatoes. The stem did not care for kale. Within a week it had sent out six leaves, each shaded a different colour depending on how the lamps caught the water beading on it: pink at one edge, a bruised purple at the other, a yellow that looked painted on by someone in a hurry. The dots along the stem were seeds, or she decided they were, and she stopped sleeping well because she kept counting them.

The ship's log asked for readings and she gave them honestly: humidity steady, light cycle nominal, one unclassified specimen leaning eleven degrees toward the forward viewport. Mirela came by with a cup of tea and said it was the only thing aboard that had ever wanted to see out. Ines said plants did not want anything. Mirela said that was what she had thought about her own mother.

On the forty-first day Ines dragged a wet brush across the log's margin the way the leaves had come up, pink bleeding into blue, and wrote beneath it: sixteen seeds, all leaning the same way. Then she cut the smallest one free, sealed it in a clean tin, and carried it forward to the viewport, where the stars hung still and bright enough to read by.