Colour tattoo of a green tree frog perched on a pink hibiscus flower with orange blossoms, on the top of a foot.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Tree frog and hibiscus on a foot

Realism · Other · Colour · Photo

A green tree frog with red eyes sits on a large pink hibiscus flower, with smaller orange and yellow blossoms around it and a stamen extending from the centre. The shading is soft and realistic, with highlights on the frog and petal veining drawn in darker pink. The tattoo covers the top of a foot against a dark background.

Realism Botanical Other Frog Hibiscus Flower Blossom Stamen

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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

The carrier stops at the bottom of Hallow Lane because the drift has swallowed the road, so it falls to you to dig out the crate and carry it up to the inn yourself. Six hibiscus cuttings are packed in wet sacking for the glasshouse at the vicarage, and one tree frog, green as a pear skin, sits on the biggest bloom as though it has been promised the seat. Its eyes are red as sealing wax. You say something rude to it and it doesn't blink.

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In the kitchen the range is the only warm thing for miles. Mrs Ashdown says a frog won't last a frost, and you say it has already survived a carrier's cart, which is more than the carrier has managed with his temper. You set the hibiscus in a stone jug on the windowsill where the light comes in thin and grey off the snow. The frog hops onto the rim and watches the flakes gather on the glass, its throat pulsing as if it is counting them.

Through the night the guests come in one at a time, stamping and swearing: a cloth salesman, two nuns who play cards like sharks, a boy with a fiddle case he will not put down. Each time the door opens the cold runs across the flagstones and the frog makes for the warm side of the jug. By dawn the largest petal has unfolded, pink as a sunburnt rose, its veins darker than the ink on the carrier's manifest. The orange blossoms have turned their faces to a sun that is not yet there.

The vicarage man comes at ten with a sledge for the cuttings. You hand over the sacking and let him take the plants, but the stone jug stays on your sill, and the frog stays in it. You tell him the frog went out in the night with the snow. He nods and does not look. When you check the window an hour later the frog is still there, lit green against the white, and you leave the sash open a finger's width so it can choose its own thaw.