Black and grey script reading Rebel across the lower abdomen, flanked by two shaded revolvers with red roses, with a navel piercing visible above.

Rebel lettering with revolvers and roses

Lettering · Other · Mixed · Photo

The tattoo spells the word Rebel in bold, flowing script across the lower abdomen, with a revolver on each side. Each gun is shaded in grey and black with soft highlights, and a red rose sits on top of each one. The composition is centred on the belly, with jeans and a dark top framing the image.

Lettering Realism Other Script Revolver Gun Rose

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Get your boots off the fender, Tom, before your mother sees. Aye, I know what you're looking at. The pistols. Your grandfather brought the pair back from the trenches in a biscuit tin, and he never once fired them, not even at the rats in the drift. What he did with them was lay them on the kitchen table the night the owners posted the notice, and then he said nothing at all. That was the rebellion, lad. A man with two guns on the table and nothing to say about them.

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The women of Hartley Dene had no use for guns. They had the rose beds along the back lane, the ones the deputies walked past on their way to the shift, and every June they cut the best blooms for the show tent. Ada Renshaw cut hers the morning the strike began and carried them down to the lodge in a jam jar, red as a pit lamp, and set them on the table beside the pistols. Nobody told her not to.

The owners sent for the police that week. The constable came up the lane with his notebook and stopped in the lodge doorway, looked at the flowers and the two pistols laid side by side, and wrote down nothing. He went back down the hill and told his sergeant the men of Hartley Dene were armed with roses, which was true enough, and the sergeant laughed so hard he had to sit on the step.

Ada's jar stood on that table until the strike ended in the autumn. The petals went brown on the sill and dropped one by one, and nobody thought to move it, and nobody thought to clean up the mess either. That's how you knew the thing had been won, Tom, when folk stopped minding the flowers.