Colour neo-traditional tattoo of a blue TARDIS police box and red and orange Daleks against a green burst, covering the upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

TARDIS and Daleks on an upper arm

Neo-trad · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows a blue TARDIS police box in the foreground with three Daleks behind it, two in orange and one in red, set against a green starburst and a pale sky. The bold black outlines and flat, saturated fills give it a neo-traditional look, with simple highlights on the box windows and Dalek domes. The design wraps around the upper arm and shoulder of a person whose face is not shown.

Neo-trad Upper arm Tardis Police box Dalek Doctor who Starburst Sky

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The blue box turned up in the far field the week after the big freeze. My father saw it first from the yard, frost in his eyebrows, and said it stood there with its door propped open and the snow around it not so much as dented. My mother said he'd been at the cider. We went out together in the grey half-light, my boots still unlaced, and found it perfectly real, glossy as a new tractor.

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It was larger inside than out, which nobody on our farm was prepared to discuss. A glass column rose through a console full of brass levers, and the air hummed like the milking parlour on a Sunday. Then the orange domes came over the hedge, three of them, stuttering on their little legs through the frozen stubble, and the red one at the front swivelled its plunger at my father and announced that he was an inferior species. My father, who has never once been frightened of a bull, lobbed a bale of straw at it. The bale bounced off, the red one wheezed and sank into a rut, and the orange ones stopped to stare at it as though it had embarrassed them all.

The man who came out of the box wore a scarf the colour of marmalade and a cardigan with a hole at the elbow. He said the Daleks had followed him from a place where it was always summer, and that our mud was the first ordinary thing he had met in three hundred years. He asked for a spare hay wagon and a kettle. My mother gave him both, and the Daleks spent the afternoon being towed out of the ditch by our old grey tractor, the green light dimming over the hedges as the sky went pale.

When they finally rumbled off in a flash, the box stayed behind with its door still open. I swept the straw off its step before the frost came back, and in spring I used it to store the lambing tins. Nobody has ever found the key. Some mornings the glass column still hums against the lock, as if it is waiting for the next thing on the farm that needs fixing.