Black and grey realism tattoo of a horned animal skull with roses across the centre of a person's chest, above a black lace top.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Horned animal skull and roses on a chest

Realism · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A large tattoo of a horned animal skull, possibly bull or cattle, fills the centre of the chest, with the horns sweeping out across the collarbones. Roses and smaller flowers are shaded around the skull, with fine drips and ink splatter at the edges. The work uses soft grey shading and dark contrast, and the black lace trim at the bottom of the frame sits below the design.

Realism Botanical Chest Skull Animal skull Horn Rose Flower

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Tuesday, and the big top at Cleckheaton has a new hole in the canvas over the trapeze rigging. Mr Coyle says it is the wind. I say it is the rot, same as the poles and the ringmaster's good boots. I am writing this in the tack wagon because it is the only place with a lock that works. Bartholomew, the old bull who pulled the calliope for thirty-one years, died in March, and Coyle had his head boiled, bleached and hung above the ticket box like a trophy from a hunt we never went on.

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The town brought wreaths. Mrs Vine, who sells candyfloss and has never once paid her share of the diesel, sent a garland of red roses with a card that said Rest, you great brute. The petals are going brown now and dropping onto my ledger, so the sums have roses pressed through them. We are four hundred and twelve pounds short for the Harrogate fortnight. Coyle says the bank will wait. The bank has not waited for anyone since 1974.

This afternoon a man in a grey overcoat came asking to buy the skull. He had a card from a collector in Leeds and a cheque already written, the amount blank. Coyle was half-reaching for the pen when I stood between them and took the skull down myself. It is lighter than it looks. The horns are heavier, sweeping out as wide as my arms, and when I lifted it the old ink splatter we painted on the backdrop caught the lamplight, so for a moment it seemed the skull was bleeding. I told the man it was not for sale. He said everything is for sale. I said then find a cheaper one.

I have set Bartholomew on the wagon step facing the field, where the tent will stand tomorrow for the last time. The roses are drying in the wind. Tonight I will sleep with the door open and the ledger under my pillow.