Black and grey crescent moon and sun tattoos with faces, placed on the thighs, with dotted line rays.

Crescent moon and sun on thighs

Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

Two tattoos sit on a pair of thighs: a crescent moon with a face, beaded hanging ornaments and scrollwork on the upper thigh, and a sun with a face and flame-like rays on the lower thigh. Both use fine linework with soft grey shading, and dotted trails run from each design. The photograph is taken from above, with the legs filling the frame and gravel visible in the background.

Thigh Moon Crescent moon Sun Face Ray Bead Scrollwork Dotted line

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The moon was still hanging over the breakwater when Nell Corran carried the bait tubs down the slip, and her father was already at the wheel of the Marigold, pretending not to look at the sky. He had a chart folded on the dash with two pencilled lines on it, one dotted and one solid, and he never said what they were for. Nell had asked once. He said the moon kept the night shift and the sun took the day, and a sensible skipper steered along the seam where they handed over.

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They left harbour in a flat grey light with the crescent still pale above the cliffs. By the third hour the wind had backed round to the north-east and the swell came up short and steep. The net fouled on something heavy off the Hag Rock, and her father swore in a way he had not sworn since her mother died, then cut the warp himself. Nell stood in the wet stern with her gloves full of brine and watched the dotted line on the chart stretch out ahead of the bow like a row of stitches, and she understood that he was not steering for the fish at all.

The sun came up through a band of haze just as the last of the moon thinned to a bright thread. Its rays broke across the water in sharp gold spikes, and for a moment the whole sea was furrowed with light, every wave lit from one side. Her father put his hand flat on the chart over the place where the lines met.

Back at the slip the gulls were already fighting over the gutted catch. He tied off the Marigold, looked up at the pale disc sinking into the west, and said, "Your mother always said they were sisters who never got to sit together." Then he went up the steps without another word, and Nell stayed on the boat with the chart, tracing the seam with her thumb until the tide turned.