Fine line black tattoo of a crescent moon with a simple face on the outer calf, below rolled denim jeans on wet skin.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Crescent moon with a face on a calf

Fine line · Calf · Black and grey · Photo

A small crescent moon with a simple drawn face, looking to the right, sits on the outer lower leg below rolled-up denim. The linework is thin and even, in solid black ink with no shading. The tattoo is centred against smooth skin dotted with water droplets, with a pale, out-of-focus background of foam and sand.

Fine line Calf Moon Crescent moon Face Celestial

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain came sideways off the harbour at half eight, and the Saturday market at Porthmellow emptied like a bath with the plug pulled. I was still under the awning, sorting a box of tin signs I had bought off a dead man's shed for four pounds. Most were rusted through. One was a crescent moon painted in cream enamel, with a face pressed into its curve and one eye half shut, as if it had only just been woken.

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Dennis from the fish stall said it was bad luck to sell a face. I told him a face was only paint until somebody looked at it long enough. He laughed and went back to his crates. I hung the moon on the hook beside my thermos, and it faced the sea. Each time I turned round, it seemed to have turned a little further towards the stall, as though it wanted to see who was still standing there.

By four the gulls had given up on the bins and sand had crept under the tarpaulins. A boy came up with a broken bicycle bell and asked what the moon was worth. I said it wasn't for sale. He asked why it was looking at him. I said it was looking at the lamp I had left on, which was true enough.

When I packed up, I carried the moon home in a carrier bag and hung it above the back door, face out to the street, where the weather could keep it honest. Next morning it was turned to the wall. I have never found out who did it, and I have stopped asking. I left it like that, the cream face pressed to the plaster, keeping its own counsel.