Traditional style colour tattoo of a grim reaper holding a bouquet of red, orange and yellow flowers, placed on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Grim reaper with flowers on a forearm

Traditional · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A grim reaper in a black hooded cloak holds a bouquet of flowers, with a skull face and dark trailing robes below. Bold black outlines frame solid fills of red, orange, yellow and green, with a large red rose at the top of the bouquet and drops of blood beneath the figure. The tattoo sits on a forearm against a dark background.

Traditional Forearm Grim reaper Skull Rose Flower Bouquet Leaves Blood

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The dough had been proving since two, and Dot Marsh had her palm flat on the tray, feeling for the give, when the back door opened without a knock. Cold came in first, then a tall figure in a black hood with a bunch of flowers held against its chest like a late guest's apology. Under the hood there was only bone, polished by the lamp, and it turned towards the ovens as if it had smelt something it had been waiting years to smell.

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'Wrong door,' Dot said. 'We don't open till six.' The figure looked at the card in its hand, then at the flowers: a fat red rose at the top, orange and yellow blooms packed round it, green leaves wrapped in brown paper. 'Ada Fenn,' it said, in a voice like a drawer sliding shut. 'Lives above the florist.' 'That's Ada, up the stairs. She's had her lumbago since Christmas. She isn't going anywhere.' The hem of the long robe dragged across the flour-dusted flags, leaving thin dark lines that Dot would have to mop up later.

She cut it a heel of yesterday's rye and put the kettle on, because nobody she had ever known was turned away hungry, and because a man standing in a bakery at four in the morning with flowers needs something to do with his hands. It ate slowly, looking along the banneton shelf as though the loaves were a row of small, obliging ghosts. 'You can't take her before the morning batch,' Dot said. 'I don't take anybody early,' it said, with real dignity. 'I only carry the flowers.' 'Then put them down and drink your tea.'

It set the bouquet on the marble. The rose, very red under the strip light, dropped a single petal onto the floor. When Dot bent to sweep it up, the loaves had risen beautifully in the dark, every one lifted and blistered and ready for the oven, and the visitor was gone, and the tea was still warm. The card lay beside the jar, with three words in careful capitals: FOR WHOEVER IS NEXT. Dot put the rose in the front window, where the first light could reach it, and went back to her dough.