Black and grey flash design of two crossed revolvers above a cluster of flowers and swirling linework, with no body placement shown.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Crossed revolvers with flowers

Botanical · Black and grey · Flash

The design shows two revolvers angled towards each other at the top, with a central cluster of open flowers and buds below them. Swirling, thorn-like linework and tapering strokes extend outwards from the flowers and across the lower section. The drawing uses solid black areas and fine grey shading on a white background, with no colour.

Botanical Revolver Pistol Gun Flower Swirl Bud

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The third week of rain had turned the big top the colour of wet slate, and Mags Coyle was still counting takings on an upturned crate when Harold came in dripping and asked how many dates were left. Four, she said. Four towns, two of them with no fairground at all. He nodded at the revolvers lying on the trunk beside her as if they were already sold.

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Her father had bought the pair from a dealer in Carlisle the year before he died, the blued steel worn pale where a thumb had rested for thirty years. Every night Mags stood in the ring and fired at the crepe paper roses her brother Dennis pinned along the high rope, and every night Ruth, the wardrobe mistress, cut fresh ones from the red and cream sheets she kept folded in a biscuit tin. The petals always came down into the sawdust like something that had given up.

Dennis had gone to Leeds in October with the van and a girl from the ticket booth, and nobody had sent word since. On the last night of the season the drum rolled and the lights dropped, and Mags loaded both guns with hands steadier than she felt. She fired every chamber in turn, each shot clipping a stem so the roses dropped in a neat row across the ring. When the smoke thinned there was one bloom left on the rope, untouched, its paper edges curling in the draught from the flap.

She didn't take a bow. She walked past Harold, past the crate and the takings, and left the bloom where it hung. In the morning Ruth would find it sodden and grey, still pinned exactly where Dennis had put it.