Pink line drawing of a woman with flowing hair and two roses tucked into it, in a realism-leaning style, shown as a tattoo design.

Woman with roses in her hair

Realism · Colour · Flash

A pink ink drawing of a woman's face and shoulders, with long wavy hair and two full-blown roses, one above her right ear and one at her left side. The linework is fine and dense, with hatching used for the hair and soft shading on the face and petals. The design is drawn in a single pink ink on a white background.

Realism Botanical Woman Portrait Rose Flower Hair Face

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Anaxo ground the last of the red roses in a bronze mortar the morning the river came over the bridge stones. Black soot was cheap in Thessa, and the rich men wrote their contracts with it, but his grandmother had taught him that the gods read pink first, because pink was the colour of things that had not yet decided to die. He pounded the petals with chalk and a spoon of acacia gum until the mixture stained his knuckles, then filled his one good reed pen.

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Telesis came to the stall before the water reached the second step. She carried no coins, only a strip of linen with a boy's name half washed away. She asked him to write it again, larger, in the old hand, and to fold it into a boat. Anaxo told her the river did not read letters. She said that was why she had come to him and not to the priests.

He wrote the name slowly. Each stroke he hatched with fine parallel lines, so the ink sank into the fibres and held there, the way a rose holds its folds around the centre. When the name was finished he set the paper on the water. It turned once, like a dancer looking back, and slipped out under the bridge.

Three days later a fisherman brought a bundle of reeds to the stall. Tangled in them was a little boat of pink paper, dry and whole, and beneath it a boy asleep on a fallen log, cold but breathing. Anaxo never charged for that ink again. The river still runs pink for a mile below the bridge in the month the roses open, and the ferrymen say it is only the petals, though none of them will drink from it.