Pencil and ink sketch of a rose with thorny stems and a revolver outline, drawn as a tattoo design with light shading.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Rose and revolver line drawing

Botanical · Black and grey · Flash

A hand-drawn sketch of an open rose with layered petals, surrounded by serrated leaves and thorny stems. A revolver with a decorated grip is partly drawn behind the flower, with faint shading on the cylinder and handle. The linework is in dark pencil or ink on paper, with soft grey shading and a few light yellow and green tints, and the composition fills the frame diagonally.

Botanical Neo-trad Rose Revolver Gun Thorn Leaves Stem Petal

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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

Sit where the light falls, because a road story doesn't like being hurried. Out past Cinder Flat, where the tarmac gives up and the sand takes over, there was a petrol station with one pump, and a woman called Ada Vane who kept a rosebush growing out of a tin kettle by the door. The bush was older than the road sign and twice as stubborn.

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One July a young man rolled in on a car that had more rust than paint. He had a revolver wrapped in a feed sack and a face like he'd already lost an argument with himself. He wanted fuel and water and a way across the Dry Mile to a brother in Tucson. Ada had seen men arrive with guns before. She poured him coffee first, black and bitter, and then she named her price. A cutting from the rose. He laughed until he saw she meant it.

So he unwrapped the gun, laid it on the sand beside the kettle, and Ada took a sharp knife to a green shoot and pressed the stem into the gap where the cylinder met the frame. Every wind after that, the bush leaned in and wrapped the grip, and the thorns crept along the barrel like they were counting it. By morning the leaves had found the trigger guard.

He drove off with the fuel and the water, and the revolver stayed under Ada's till, its carved grip gone green with leaves. Years later a letter came from Tucson asking for it back. Ada tied a sprig of the rose around the handle, wrapped the lot in the old sack, and watched the dust climb behind the car until it was just a shimmer on the Dry Mile. She counted the thorns on the grip before she went inside. There were more than there had been the day it came.