Colour tattoo of a blue crescent moon with clouds and yellow stars beside a script quote, on the side of the ribs, in a lettering style.

Crescent moon and quote on the ribs

Lettering · Ribs · Mixed · Photo

A blue crescent moon with small grey clouds and two yellow stars sits beside a quote in black cursive script that reads 'She was like the MOON Part of her was always hidden away'. The lettering is bold and the moon has light shading, with the clouds and stars adding soft colour. The tattoo is shown on the side of a torso, with a hand and a purple top at the edges of the frame.

Lettering Ribs Moon Crescent moon Star Cloud Quote Script

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The relay station on the far side of the Moon has one window, and for nineteen years I was the only one who bothered to clean it. From there Earth never shows. The rock just goes on, grey and pocked, and the ships slide past under its dark rim without anyone aboard seeing the blue planet they came from. My mother used to say the Moon kept a face for itself. I thought that was the kind of thing mothers say.

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When Halvorsen arrived to run the station, he came with a clipboard and a list. Item eleven was the sill. He wanted the window shuttered for the sensor recalibration, and the sill's old paint, he said, was a hazard. I told him the paint was not the hazard. Under the grey enamel, somebody had scratched a crescent with a stubby pencil of a knife, two little stars beside it, and a line of words that ran round the frame like a bracelet. She was like the Moon. Part of her was always hidden away.

I never learned who carved it. Records said a contract hand named Pell had worked the window shift in the year the freight lanes opened, and left at the end of a rotation without a word to anyone. I liked to imagine her sitting where I sat, with a blade and nothing to watch but rock, deciding that somebody ought to leave a mark on the thing that could not be seen from home.

Halvorsen got his shutter in the end, but only over the glass. I asked him to leave the sill alone, and he shrugged and said it was my shift. Each morning now, when the sun clears the rim and the light comes in low across the frame, the scratched words throw small hard shadows on the metal. Nobody on Earth will ever see them. I wipe the dust off every day anyway.