Traditional style flash sheet with two portrait figures in the centre, surrounded by an eye, a hand holding a cigarette, a UFO, a bee and crystals, with slogan lettering.

Flash sheet with two portraits, UFO, eye and bee

Traditional · Mixed · Flash

A painted flash sheet of tattoo designs with two portrait figures in the centre, one with shoulder-length hair and one with short hair, both with galaxy-speckled shading. Around them are an eye with a lightning bolt, a hand holding a cigarette, a flying saucer over pine trees, a bee above honeycomb cells, and crystals, with slogan lettering throughout. The bold black outlines are filled with watercolour-style washes in pinks, blues, greens and yellows on a cream background.

Traditional Neo-trad Eye Lightning bolt Star Portrait Cigarette Hand Crystal Ufo Flying saucer Pine tree Bee Honeycomb Lettering Galaxy

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer to the range, you'll not get warm by the door. Aye, the bees are asleep now, every one of them bunched together in the hive like a fist, and we've wrapped the skeps in sacking against the frost. Your grandfather did that himself the winter the lights came down over Carrow Wood.

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It was a saucer, he always said, hanging over the pines with a yellow beam poured down onto the frost, and a ewe gone from the top field that was never found. Two folk came up from the county in a grey car after that. A man with a jaw like a gatepost and a woman with an unlit cigarette she kept turning in her fingers, forever squinting at the sky as if it owed her money. She had a tin of crystals with her, and she set them on our kitchen windowsill to catch the light, and she told us, very flat, to trust no one. The man said the truth was out there, and he said it like a hymn.

They stayed nine days, slept in the cold back bedroom, and argued at this table until the paraffin ran low. On the last night the woman stood at the gate with her collar up and said she might believe it, if only the bees would hum in winter. Your grandfather laughed so hard he had to sit on the step. But come morning, the hives were singing, a low note coming through the sacking like a kettle on the boil. And across the white field ran a line of small prints, neat as stitches, from the wood's edge to the gate and back again.

They never came back, and your grandfather never once said whether he believed it. He just kept that tin of crystals on the windowsill, and every winter he lifted the lid and listened.