Black and grey realism tattoo of a Roman numeral clock, roses and ornamental swirls covering a man's shoulder, upper arm and upper chest.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Clock and roses on a shoulder and arm

Realism · Shoulder · Black and grey · Photo

A shirtless man shows a large black and grey tattoo covering his shoulder, upper arm and upper chest. The central motif is a Roman numeral clock face with visible gears, framed by two shaded roses and scrolling ornamental swirls. The shading is smooth and detailed, with strong contrast in the clock face and softer greys across the roses and flourishes against a red brick wall.

Realism Botanical Shoulder Upper arm Chest Clock Roman numeral Rose Gear Swirl Ornament Mechanical Chest piece

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The clock in the tower at Hollin Cross had stood at ten to four since the summer the orchard wardens fell out, and nobody in the parish would say which of them had stopped it. Brannock Vell kept the bees and the cider press. His sister Ada kept the tower key on a string round her neck, where the whole village could see she had no intention of handing it over.

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That August the late pears hung heavy and the wasps came down the rows like drunk men. Ada climbed the tower each evening with a tin of oil and a rag, and each evening she came down with her knuckles split on the brass. Brannock watched from the gate holding a jug he never poured from. "You'll snap the escapement," he called. "Then snap it," she said, "and we'll all know where we stand."

On the last Saturday of the month she did not come down. Brannock took the lantern up the spiral stair and found her sitting among the great wheels, the painted numerals above her like a ring of pale faces. A jackdaw had woven dried rose stems through the gearwork, and one wheel had locked against them. She had not called for help. She was pulling the stems out one by one with her bare fingers and laying them on the boards in a neat row, the way you lay out cut flowers for a funeral.

Brannock knelt and helped her. When the last stalk came free the hour hand dropped a notch with a sound like a latch lifting. They sat and listened to the tick come back into the tower, slow then steady, and out over the orchard. By dusk the clock read ten past four, which was close enough for a parish. Ada tied the key onto his wrist and told him to wind it at noon. He did, and he never once told her he had left the jug at the gate.