Photorealistic black and grey tattoo of a revolver with brass-coloured bullets on the upper arm, shaded in Realism style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Revolver and bullets on an upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

A large revolver with its cylinder open is shown in a three-quarter view, with three brass cartridges shown beside and below it. The gun is rendered with smooth, detailed shading and highlights on the metal, and the bullets have gold tones. The design fills most of the frame against plain skin.

Realism Upper arm Revolver Gun

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Fourteenth day of the snow, and the lane to Hawes is still a drift to the top of the gate. Nobody has come up from the valley since Tuesday, so the only guest I have is Mr Ashdown, who arrived on the twelfth with one trunk, a bad cough and a revolver he said was for foxes. He paid through the new year in coin and asked for the room at the back, where the chimney breast keeps the wind off.

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This morning I went in to build up his fire and found the revolver lying open on the washstand, its cylinder swung out like a little brass wheel that had stopped turning. Three cartridges sat beside it on the oilcloth, gold in the grey light from the window. He had not loaded it, only unloaded it, and I wondered what he had been counting. When he came down for his porridge I set the cartridges on the table between us and said nothing at all.

He looked at them for a long while. Then he told me about his brother, who cleaned a gun in a kitchen in Leeds and never quite finished, and about the ball that went through the dresser and lodged in the bread crock, which is why we still have a bread crock with a hole in it. He did not say what he meant to shoot. I did not ask. I gave him more tea and a second spoon of sugar, which is what my mother did when a thing could not be mended.

The thaw came on the nineteenth. This morning his trunk was gone from the back room and the revolver with it, and on the washstand a single cartridge stood upright on a folded page. Inside the page he had written: keep this one for the lane, it is yours now. I put it in the tin with the matches and the dog's old collar, and I have not told the vicar.