Traditional style tattoo of a red and grey flying saucer over mountains, pine trees and a crescent moon inside a diamond frame, on the calf.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Flying saucer over mountains in a diamond frame

Traditional · Calf · Mixed · Photo

A night landscape sits inside a diamond-shaped frame, with a red and grey flying saucer low in the foreground, grass tufts, and a grey mountain range under a crescent moon and scattered stars. Bold black outlines and simple shading define the pine trees, clouds and ground, while the saucer's dome is rendered with a glossy highlight. Colour is limited to red, orange and yellow accents against black and grey.

Traditional Calf Flying saucer Ufo Mountain Pine tree Moon Star Grass Landscape Cloud

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down, mind the gooseberries, and don't let the bench fool you, it's been wobbling since your mother was in short trousers. My grandfather Dennis kept the allotment behind the chapel, with the pines climbing the hill above Cwm Hafod, and every summer he said the same thing to anyone who'd listen: the pines have ears.

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The night the saucer came down, he was out after the slugs with a torch and a tin of lager. The sky over the peaks had stars thick as spilt sugar, and a crescent moon hung like a bent nail. Then the cloud rolled off the ridge, slow as wet wool, and under it sat a thing like a red pie dish with a glass lid, a ring of little lamps round its belly, and the grass lay flat all around it without a sound.

Two small figures in silver walked out from under the dome. They stood looking up at the mountain the way you'd look into a shop window you couldn't afford. Dennis didn't run. He lifted his torch and flashed it twice, the way he signalled the milkman. One of them raised a hand back. Then they went in, the pines leaned together, and the dish rose without a single note.

Nobody believed him. Not the vicar, not Gwen at the Co-op. But the next spring the gooseberry bush by the wall bore fruit as big as plums, and it never went sour again. Dennis tipped his cap at the hill every morning after that. Go on, pick one. Mind the ones on the north side, they still taste of the moon.