Black and mint brushstroke crescent tattoo with a dotted trail on the inner forearm, shown with the wrist raised.

Brushstroke crescent moon on a forearm

Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A painterly crescent shape in solid black ink sits on the inner forearm, with a pale mint wash inside its curve and soft grey brush streaks sweeping outward. A short dotted line rises from the top of the crescent and a few dots trail down the lower left. The image is a close, slightly angled shot against a grey padded surface, with the wrist and fingertips visible at the top of the frame.

Forearm Crescent Moon Brushstroke Dot Abstract

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

The stones started at the last well, a pale chalk dot every hundred paces, and Hana followed them out onto the Ashkel road with her headlamps off so she could see what the moon was doing. It was a thin rind of a moon, low over the escarpment, and the dust coming off the flats had turned the sky the colour of old pewter. Her brother Idris had made the dots himself, she was certain, because that was what he did when he was frightened and wanted something to keep his hands busy.

Keep reading

The wind lifted grit in long grey streaks that ran across the tarmac like brush marks on wet paper. She counted as she drove. Eleven, twelve, thirteen. At each one she stopped, climbed out, crouched in the cold and checked the chalk against the sky. Their mother used to say Idris drew the moon as a crescent because a half thing was honest, you could always see where it stopped. Hana had never found that very comforting, but she found herself thinking it now, out there with the tyres ticking as they cooled.

At the twenty-third dot the line bent north toward a dry wadi, and there was the lorry, its cab door hanging open and the radio muttering the weather in a language she only half understood. Idris was asleep across the bench seat with his boots still laced and one hand inside a paper bag of dates. She stood in the doorway for a long while, letting the dust settle on her sleeves, before she reached past him and switched the radio off.

On the dashboard lay a torn sheet of his sketchbook, a crescent in black ink with a faint green wash pooled inside its curve. Hana took the chalk from her coat pocket and made one more dot on the bonnet, so he would know someone had followed the whole way.