Two black dotwork tattoos side by side: a log cabin with smoke curling into a flying saucer on the left, and a saucer above pine trees on the right, both with stars.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Log cabin and UFO tattoos in dotwork

Dotwork · Other · Black and grey · Photo

The left panel shows a log cabin with a chimney, pine trees and stars, with a swirling trail of stippled smoke leading to a small flying saucer. The right panel shows a larger saucer hovering above a cluster of pine trees, surrounded by stars. Both designs use bold black outlines with dot-stippled shading, and the image is entirely in black ink with no colour.

Dotwork Other Ufo Flying saucer Pine tree Star Smoke Chimney

Find an artist for this

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

Right, you'll want the kettle on for this, because Iain Murray never told a story in fewer than three cups. It was the back end of a wet October, and the smoke from his chimney had been going straight up all week, which he took as a sign the stove was drawing well and his wife took as a sign he'd been burning the good coal again. She sent him out to fetch the peat basket, and he went, and he came back twenty minutes later with no basket and a face like a dropped pie.

Keep reading

He said there was a saucer sitting in the big Scots pines behind the byre. Not a plane, not a helicopter from the army range over at Fort Augustus, a saucer, grey as porridge, humming the way a fridge hums when you've left the door open. The stars had come out bright over the ridge, one after another, as if somebody was counting them in. He said the light under it fell down in a pale column and the needles below lit up one by one, like the trees were being introduced.

Now, I didn't believe a word. But the next morning the mark was there: a ring of flattened bracken as wide as a kitchen table, and a smell like hot pennies. And the peat basket was sitting neatly on the doorstep, full to the brim, which in forty years Iain had never once managed on his own.

So I asked him what they'd wanted. He said he'd asked them the same thing. They'd said nothing, only pointed at his chimney, which was still smoking, and then they'd gone up into the stars like a bubble in a jar. He's been quiet about it since, mostly. Still, every cold night he goes out and leaves the back door open a crack, and every morning there's something on the step: a bag of cold peat, a tin of biscuits, once a pine cone the size of a fist.