Black ink line drawing of a crescent moon with a profiled face, dotted lace-like patterns and a dangling pendant, drawn as tattoo flash on plain paper.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Crescent moon face with ornamental linework

Dotwork · Black and grey · Flash

A black ink line drawing of a crescent moon with a stylised human profile facing left, closed eye, and a small pendant hanging from the top edge. The crescent's outer rim and inner decorative sections are filled with scalloped borders, dotwork, mandala-like petals and teardrop motifs. The image is drawn in clean single-weight black lines on a pale background, with no shading or colour.

Dotwork Geometric Moon Crescent Face Pendant Mandala Dot

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Shut the door properly, the wind off the Wash wants in at every crack. Sit down by the grate and I'll tell you about the summer the moon came to lodge at Marram House, because it's true, whatever Mr Pell says about his bunions and his brandy. She arrived on the last Tuesday of August with no luggage but a silver pendant swinging from her ear, a little heart with a bead at its neck, and she paid for her room in teaspoons of starlight.

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She kept to the top floor with the window open. Every evening she came down the back stairs, crescent-shaped, her hair spread out in scalloped waves like the lace on my good Sunday tablecloth, and she sat on the sea wall with her eyes shut, humming to the tide. The boarders complained she kept them awake. Mrs Hollis complained the most, because the moon would not stop shining on her linen, and no amount of pegging would keep the light off the washing.

So I went up one night with a jug of cocoa and found her in the attic, drawing dots on the wallpaper with a stub of charcoal. Every dot, she said, was a boat that had got home. Every petal was a door left unlocked for someone late. She asked me what I'd put in the middle of my own mandala, and I said the kettle, and she laughed so hard a row of teardrops fell off her edge and drifted out to sea like little pale fish.

She left at dawn on the first of September, and the house has been strangely quiet since. Mr Pell says it was the brandy. I say the sea wall still has a ring of dotwork on the stones where she sat, and if you look at the tide line at low water, the scallops are still there. Now, who's for another cup? And mind the stair, the seventh step still has her silver heart caught in the joint.