Colour traditional tattoo of a black and red flying saucer with an orange tractor beam and green accents, on a forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Flying saucer with tractor beam on a forearm

Traditional · Forearm · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows a retro flying saucer with a black dome, red banding, orange windows and antennae, beaming down an orange tractor beam edged in green. Bold black outlines and flat, solid fills give it a classic American traditional look, with dotted lines suggesting motion beside the beam. The design is centred on a close, slightly angled view of the forearm against a plain white background.

Traditional Forearm Ufo Flying saucer Alien

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The generator coughed twice before the lights caught, and by then you were halfway up the ladder to the saucer ride with a tin of bulbs under one arm, because Pargeter had promised the council man a full turn by seven. The Starlight Orbiter was a tired thing. Its black dome had been repainted so often the red bands sat proud of the metal, and the antennae had snapped twice and been mended with solder and optimism. Below, the orange beam hung over the gravel like a dropped lampshade, its green edge pulsing when the wiring behaved.

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Pargeter's father had built it from a dance hall's scrap and a van engine, and he had believed, with the stubbornness of a man who had seen too many newsreels, that the beam could lift anything it touched. Nobody had proved him wrong. Nobody had proved him right either, though the fair's youngest regular, a girl called Nessa Bright who sold tickets from a biscuit tin, swore every Tuesday that it had lifted her cat clean off the grass and set it down three fields away. You told her cats had more sense than that. She told you cats had more sense than you.

Tonight the lamp in the bulb cupboard blew, and you stood with the new one in your palm, fumbling the brass cap while the first customers gathered at the rail. A man in a donkey jacket asked if the thing was safe. You said it had been safe since 1961, which was the kind of lie every fairground tells. Then the switch clicked, the dome hummed, and the green edge began to chase itself around the rim, and for one long breath the saucer tilted towards the field as if it had heard its name.

When the gondola swung down at half past nine, Nessa's tin was in it, tied with baler twine, and folded inside the lid was a note in capitals: TOOK DONKEY JACKET MAN UP. HE SAID NOTHING. BRING ANOTHER BULB. You looked at the empty seat, then at the orange light still spilling across the grass, and for once you did not tell anyone it was the wiring.