Colourful abstract revolver tattoo on the side of the ribs, with swirling patterns in pink, blue and yellow and a black beaded chain.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Colourful revolver on the ribs

Neo-trad · Ribs · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows a revolver with a bold, stylised barrel and cylinder, decorated with stripes, drips and swirling shapes. A black beaded chain hangs from the trigger guard, and the lower section dissolves into blue and purple swirls with orange and pink dots. Bright colour dominates across the design, with smooth shading and no visible fine outlines.

Neo-trad Ribs Revolver Gun Bead Swirl Abstract Dot

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Old Amos Teague kept his revolver in a biscuit tin under the counter of the Hollin Cross barber's shop, and in the spring of 1956 he gave it to his niece Peggy with instructions to get rid of it before the Whit fair. She took it up the lane in a paper bag. The rain had been falling since Thursday, and the river at the bottom of Mill Lane was the colour of strong tea.

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Peggy did not throw it in the river. She sat on the bridge wall with her knees under her chin and thought about her uncle's hands, which shook now when he shaved people, and about the day he had taken the gun out to frighten a man who owed him money, then cried in the back room after. Nobody in Hollin Cross could say what the gun had ever been for. She set it on the wall and fetched the paints she used for shop signs and gates, and began to cover it.

She painted stripes first, red and yellow down the barrel, then pink drips off the cylinder like sugar running on a cake. She put dots where the screws had been. The black beads she hung from the trigger guard came from her mother's rosary, unpicked and restrung with a fishing knot. By the time the church clock struck four, the gun looked like something off a fairground stall, and the river below had gone blue and purple where the light broke through the cloud.

Amos came looking for her at dusk and found the revolver lying on the bridge wall, bright as a bag of sweets. He turned it over and weighed it in his palm, and for once he did not shout. "It won't go off like that," he said. "No," said Peggy. "It'll just look at you." He carried it home and set it on the shelf above the sink, where it stayed, and the biscuit tin went back under the counter, empty.