Black line drawing of a crescent moon with mandala patterns, dangling beads and an arrow, shown as a fine line tattoo design with no body placement visible.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Crescent moon and arrow line design

Fine line · Black and grey · Flash

A black line drawing of a crescent moon filled with mandala-style arcs and scallops, with strings of beads and diamond pendants hanging from its tip. Below, a feather-like shape and two arrows descend along a curling line that ends in a spiral. The linework is thin and even on a plain white background, with no shading or colour.

Fine line Geometric Crescent moon Mandala Bead Pendant Arrow Feather Spiral Line art

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Pull your chair in closer, the wasps have gone to bed and the moon's caught on the top bough of the Brenner tree like a hook. That's the old orchard above Hollin Lane, eleven trees and a gate that won't shut, and it's the summer the Harrow girl was nine and far too clever for her own good.

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Nell's father swore the last of the Bramleys would never ripen. Every August he went up the ladder and cut them green, and every August she gathered the drops from the long grass and strung them on butcher's twine. Twelve apples to a string, a pear stone bead between each one, and a bit of cut glass at the bottom for a pendant. She wanted the moon to see them, you understand, so she hung the strings from the curl of its horn and sang the words her gran had taught her for calling the bees.

Her uncle Abel fletched arrows for the county archers and had no patience for children's nonsense. He came up the lane one evening with a feathered shaft in his hand, meaning to shoot it clean over the high branch, and the arrow went wide, looped along the spiral of the lane, and stuck fast in the crescent of the bough. Nell said the moon had taken it for a gift. Abel said the moon could keep his arrows and welcome.

That night the strings came down, every bead of them, and the next morning the Bramleys hung red and heavy on every tree. Father stood in the gateway with his mouth open and nothing to say. The arrow's still up there, if you look, and so is a single piece of cut glass, turning slow on its thread. Don't you touch it. He's still cross about the apples.