Black and grey dotwork tattoo of a cat's head with an eye above and a crescent moon below, framed by sunburst rays on an upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Cat with all-seeing eye and crescent moon

Dotwork · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A cat's face sits at the centre, with an eye above its brow inside a sunburst, and a solid black crescent moon with an open circle beneath, also surrounded by rays. The cat's fur and features are built up with stippled dots and fine shading, while the sunburst and moon use crisp outlines. The tattoo is entirely black and grey on pale skin, against a dark background with a blurred patterned fabric at the right edge.

Dotwork Blackwork Geometric Upper arm Cat Eye Crescent moon Sunburst Ray Circle

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The cat came down off the orchard wall the night the windfalls began to sour in the long grass, and it sat on the upturned crate by the cider press as though it had been waiting for you to finish your tea. Its fur was striped like smoke. Above its brow, where a cat should have nothing, a third eye had opened, grey and unhurried, and when you looked at it the wasps along the bottom rail stopped moving.

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Your uncle planted these trees forty years ago, Bramleys and Discoverys and one tired old Cox that nobody else would bother with. He used to say the fruit was never for selling. It was for the moon to count. You had taken that for drink talking, the way he talked about the brook having a memory. Tonight the moon hung above the far hedge as thin as a paring knife, and the dark sky around it looked as though something had drawn it there with a steady hand.

The cat led you down the rows without once looking back. Where it passed, the leaves turned to face it like sunflowers. At the bottom of the orchard, where the ground dropped to the brook, stood a ring of flat stones and a ladder with two rungs missing. The cat stopped beside the ladder, looked up at the crescent, then at you, and you understood the arrangement. Your uncle had kept the old bargain for forty years, and the bargain had kept him, and nobody had told you it passed to whoever held the key to the gate.

You climbed carefully, skipping the broken rungs by memory, and picked the last fruit from the highest branch. It was dark and heavy, with a sunburst pricked into its skin. You set it in the centre of the stones and stepped back. The cat washed one paw, unhurried, and the rays of light ran out from the stones across the grass like spokes. By morning the apple was gone, the gate was open, and the cat was asleep on your back step as if it had never once been anywhere else.