Black and grey fine line and dotwork tattoo of a crescent moon with a face and clouds on the inner forearm, shown in a full view and a close-up.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Crescent moon with face and clouds on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows a crescent moon with a profiled face in its shaded inner disc, with stylised cloud shapes drifting across the moon. A thin outline defines the crescent and the clouds, while stippled dotwork shading gives the moon its tonal depth. The left panel shows the whole piece on the inner forearm against a grey wall, and the right panel is a close-up of the face and clouds.

Fine line Dotwork Forearm Moon Crescent moon Face Cloud Celestial

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Margaret,

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The moon came up over the junction last night like a coin somebody had bent in the middle, and I swear it had its face turned towards the goods yard the way you used to turn yours towards the kitchen window when Father was late back. Sorry, that's a daft thing to start with. Mr Pryce has me on the night board now that old Gittins has his chest, and the hours are long, but I find I don't mind the quiet. The clouds come in off the hills in little grey bundles and the moon sits behind them, peeping out, as if it's shy of being seen all at once.

Last Tuesday a goods wagon came through with its sheet torn loose, and the lamp caught the painted lettering on its side, half a name, Tallow and something. I stood on the footplate and thought of you going off on the 6.15 with that battered case and your gloves on the wrong hands. Funny how a town gets small when you're the only one left counting the lamps.

I've been keeping the lamp book the way you taught me, every entry in order. There's a page for nights when nothing happens, and I've started a second page for things I'd like to tell you. This is the first line on it. Come home at Christmas if the line's open. The moon will be whole then, I'm told, and I'll be on the platform at half past nine, pretending I'm not looking up the track.

Your loving brother, Tom