A small black revolver tattoo on the side ribs of a person wearing a grey vest top, shown against a warm orange-toned background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small revolver tattoo on the ribs

Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A small black revolver with a long barrel and visible cylinder is tattooed on the side of the torso. The lines are solid and dark, with some grey shading in the grip and frame. The warm orange skin tone and grey vest top sit behind the design, with the tattoo placed near the centre of the frame.

Ribs Revolver Gun Pistol

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The frost has got into the pump again, so you break the ice on the trough with the butt of your grandfather's old revolver, the one he swore had been empty since the year the mare died. Eli watches from the gate with his hands jammed under his armpits, his breath rising like steam from a kettle nobody is watching. The gun has a long barrel and a cylinder that no longer turns true, and when you thumb the hammer back it clicks like a tongue against teeth.

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Nobody has fired it in forty years. It lived in a biscuit tin under the stairs with a Bible and a bundle of letters tied in string, and when the bank came for the back field he laid it on the kitchen table as if it were a bill he could not pay. Now the fox has been at the hens three nights running, leaving grey feathers across the snow. Eli wants to know whether the thing works. You tell him it does not matter whether it works, only whether the fox believes it does.

You walk the rows to the hedge, where the tracks run neat as stitching. The wind has dropped. The sky over the barn has gone the colour of pewter going to rust, and the fox sits on the gatepost as calm as a deacon, its eyes catching the last of the light. You raise the gun in both hands and do not look away. The trigger is stiff.

You pull it on an empty chamber. The click carries across the whole white field, flat and final. The fox turns its head, unhurried, then drops off the post and goes over the hedge without a backward glance. Eli laughs so hard he has to hold the gate. You stand a while longer with the cold iron in your palm, realising the gun was never the thing that frightened anyone.