Colour tattoo of a wild rose sprig with pink petals, dark green leaves and a bud, in botanical style with dotwork centres, on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Wild rose sprig on a forearm

Botanical · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A sprig of wild rose runs up the forearm, showing two open pink flowers with dotted centres, a closed bud at the upper left and layered dark green leaves. Black outlines define the petals, stems and leaves, while the dotwork stippling adds texture to the flower centres. The design sits diagonally on a pale arm against a white lace-like crocheted fabric.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, and don't touch the thorns in the basket, for they are the last of the old hedge in Mallowdene, and they bite. The kingdom of Mallowdene lay between two rivers that have since agreed to forget it, and its queen had a stone heart and a garden of nothing but clipped box. Her youngest, Princess Elin, was given a single wild rose from the ditches by the mill, because the gardener thought it too common for the palace walls.

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Elin planted it anyway, in the crack beside the postern gate where the lace-makers hung their washing. Every morning she carried water from the mill-race in a cracked jug, and every morning the thorned stem had climbed a hand's breadth further up the wall. The queen ordered the gardeners to tear it out. They tried three times. Each time they came back with their palms scored and their shears left caught in the bramble, and the rose opened two more flowers in the night, pale as the inside of a shell, their centres dotted gold as if someone had pricked them with a needle.

On the morning of the midsummer fair the queen came out to the wall herself and found Elin asleep against the stones with a closed bud tucked in her fist. The queen had not seen her daughter sleep since the girl was small. She knelt in the dew, took a thorn from her own sleeve, and pricked her finger on the stem. A drop of blood ran down a dark green leaf, and the rose, they say, never again bore a flower that was not blushed a little pink at the edge.

So when a briar catches your sleeve in Mallowdene, don't tug it free. Let it keep its small piece of you and walk on slower. Now, who's for more cold tea before the owl comes?

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