Black and grey rose tattoo on the upper arm of a person in a knotted white Nike t-shirt, with a bare midriff.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Black rose tattoo on upper arm

Botanical · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A cropped photograph of a person wearing a white, knotted t-shirt printed with a red Nike logo, showing a bare midriff and dark underwear. A dark rose tattoo sits on the upper arm, with some further fine dark linework visible above it on the arm. The tattoo is shown in black ink and grey tones against a plain pale wall.

Botanical Upper arm Rose Flower Linework

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit nearer the range, the lot of you, because the wind's come round to the north and it'll want to get in under the door before the kettle boils. Right. You'll have heard about the black rose that grew against the byre wall at Low Scar. No? Then your mothers have been soft with you.

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Old Hannah Ridley planted it the winter the beck froze solid, a cutting she'd carried inside her coat from the churchyard at Garsdale, wrapped in wet sacking. Everyone said it would die by Candlemas. It did not. It sent up canes thorned like a hedge and, come January, it put out buds the colour of a coal left out in the rain, and those buds opened into roses so dark they looked cut from a night sky with no moon.

Her son Edwin was a liar, the way some boys are, and he went about the farm telling the hired men he'd got the ewes through the blizzard single-handed. The rose knew better. Every morning it dropped one petal on the step of the house where the truth was kept, and every morning Edwin stepped over it and said nothing.

On the third week of the snow he went out to the far field at dusk, found the ewe he'd left to die, and carried her home across his shoulders. He never told anyone he'd done it. But the next morning the rose stood in full bloom at the wall, black as the ink in a ledger, and on the frost beneath it lay one perfect petal, and the footprints led back out to the field.