Fine line black tattoo of a wildflower bouquet with slender stems, leaves and small blossoms on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Wildflower bouquet on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single bouquet of wildflowers is drawn with delicate black linework, with stems fanning up from a tied point and tapering down the skin. The blooms include small open flowers and a daisy-like head, with leaves and sprigs filling the gaps. The design is in solid black ink on a softly lit, light-skinned arm with plenty of empty space around it.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Bouquet Wildflower Flower Stem Leaves Sprig Daisy

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The mail van from Tolan Wells came over the pass every second Thursday, and every second Thursday old Bessa Corran walked down to the bend where the road gave up being a road and asked the driver to wait. She had a bundle in a cloth bag. Nobody in the village asked what was in it, because they knew.

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Her son Idris had gone east across the salt flats the spring the rains failed, looking for work on the far rail gangs, and the flats had kept him. Bessa did not believe in the flats keeping anything, but she believed in the flowers. After the rain that came late and short, the verges burst for a fortnight: poppies with papery cups, a feathery sprig that smelled of pepper, and the small white daisies with yellow hearts that grew where nothing else would. She picked what she could reach and tied the stems with grey wool at the base, so the heads fanned out like a hand held open. Her mother had taught her that a bouquet for the road must point the way the walker went, so the stems tapered toward the east and the tips of the leaves turned that way too.

The driver, a patient man called Ferris Oddy, laid each bundle on the verge at the bend and said nothing. Bessa stood until the dust settled, then went home.

The spring after she died, Ferris found a bundle already at the bend, tied in grey wool, its stems dry as paper but still pointing east. Then another a mile further out, and another beyond that, each one set down a little farther on than the last, until the line of them ran out past sight toward the flats. Nobody in Tolan Wells had picked those flowers. Ferris left his own bundle at the bend that day and drove on, and the next time he came back there were three more.