Black and grey tattoo of a crescent moon entwined with blossom flowers and a sitting cat, on a person's upper back.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Crescent moon with cat and blossom on upper back

Botanical · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey tattoo of a crescent moon, outlined in bold black with fine stems and small buds along its curve. Several five-petalled blossoms are shaded in grey, and a solid black cat sits inside the lower curve with its tail wrapped around the moon. The image is a close, straight-on photograph of the upper back, with the subject's blonde hair at the top edge of the frame.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Tom,

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We pulled into Market Harrow on Tuesday in the rain, and the first thing Dad did was sit in the cab and refuse to get out until the generator had been coaxed twice. You'll laugh, but the cat has taken to the Crescent. That's the old swing boat Mr Pryce repainted last spring, the one shaped like a new moon with the blossom he splashed up its inner curve. Sable walks the rail of it every morning like a foreman checking his gang.

Last Thursday she went missing from the wagons. We searched the pens and the feed sacks and the lost property tent, and Mrs Okonedo swore she'd seen her go under the canvas towards the dog track. Nobody thought to look at the rides until Ruthie found her at half four, sat in the lower curve of the moon with her tail wrapped round the arm of it, as calm as a clock. The blossoms were grey with dew. Ruthie said it looked like she'd been waiting for someone to switch the lights on.

I didn't tell you this on the phone because you'd say I was getting soft. Maybe I am. Pryce is dead now, three winters back, but he told me once that he painted those flowers from the orchard at his mother's place in Kent, the one they sold off before the war. He said a moon was only a bit of light until somebody gave it something to hold on to.

We're on the coast road by the weekend. I've told Dad I'm not leaving her behind this time, so if you hear shouting from the Lancaster lay-by, it's only me.

Love, Nell

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