Black and grey dotwork tattoo of a flying saucer with a beam of light made of geometric dot patterns, on the inner forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

UFO beaming a dotwork pattern on a forearm

Dotwork · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey tattoo shows a flying saucer inside a dotted circle at the top, with a beam of light fading down the forearm. The beam is built from repeated geometric star and triangle motifs made of stippled dots, which grow denser toward the top. The photograph is taken from above on a plain light background, with the saucer and beam filling most of the frame.

Dotwork Geometric Forearm Ufo Flying saucer Geometric pattern Dot Circle

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Maureen Dyce had logged forty-one umbrellas since Tuesday, so the forty-second brought her to a stop. It was a child's, lilac, with a bent rib, and folded inside it was a sheet of graph paper pricked all over with a compass point. The tiny holes had been joined into stars and triangles that grew thicker toward the top of the page, where a saucer sat inside a ring of dots.

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She held the sheet up under the strip light on platform four. The 21:14 to Leeds had gone, and the platform smelled of hot brakes and vinegar from the chip shop. When she tilted the paper, the dots seemed to lift off it in a pale column, the way the sodium lamps at the far end of the platform threw their light down onto the rails. Her late father had mended clocks in Hull and used to say that every object kept the hands of whoever had last cared for it. She turned the page over. In soft pencil someone had written: Ask Kev if the light is still on.

Kev Pryce kept the signal box above the cutting, with a kettle that never quite boiled and a radio tuned to the shipping forecast. He read the note twice, then poured her tea into a mug that said World's Okayest Uncle. He said the light had come down the cutting most nights in the nineties, a soft white thing that hummed, and that his predecessor had sworn it was only the reflection of the yard lamps on wet grass. Nobody had asked him anything about it for years.

Below them the rails ran away into the dark, shining where the moon caught them. Maureen folded the graph paper along its old crease and tucked it back into the lilac umbrella. She would take it to the owner in the morning, whoever had drawn that beam so carefully, and she would ask them where it had been pointing.