Colour traditional tattoo of a pink flamingo with yellow flowers, teal leaves and red roses on the forearm, shown in three side-by-side views.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Flamingo and roses on a forearm

Traditional · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A pink flamingo stands on long yellow legs, with a yellow crown-like flower and red roses with dark leaves around its base. The tattoo uses bold black outlines, red and pink shading on the wings and body, and flat teal and yellow fills on the leaves and flower. The image is a triptych of three views of the same forearm, set against a dark background.

Traditional Forearm Flamingo Rose Flower Leaves Bird

Find an artist for this

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

Dessa had the nets half mended when the flamingo came up the slip at low water, stepping between the crab pots as if it had been booked for the tide. Nobody in Blackwater Quay owned a bird like that. Its pink was the pink of a boiled prawn, and its long yellow legs looked dipped in the same tar that sealed the hulls.

Keep reading

Old Pim from the chandlery said it had come off a travelling show that folded at Harwich in August, and that the showman had driven off without counting his animals. "Flamingos don't go out in weather," Pim said, "so you'd best feed it up before the gales." Dessa tossed it a mackerel head from the bucket. The bird ate with the slow disdain of a lady at a dinner party, then turned its head towards the mouth of the estuary, where the Marigold should have come round the breakwater two days ago.

Her father had gone out on the Tuesday ebb with the rest of the fleet, and the weather had turned on them the way it did in October, quick and grey. The radio had gone quiet off the Sunk. Every boat that came in since had brought a wave and a shake of the head. Dessa kept mending. The flamingo stood on one leg by the pilot's steps, watching the water with a patience she had never managed herself.

At dusk the Marigold's engine came out of the murk, rough and late. The flamingo lifted its wings, a spread of pink and black like a torn flag, and walked to the edge of the slip as though it had been waiting for that boat all along. Dessa set down her needle. Nobody on the quay said anything. The bird folded its neck and waited for the mooring line to land.