Black dotwork crescent moon tattoo on the inner wrist, with the shading fading into scattered dots along the lower edge.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dotwork crescent moon on a wrist

Dotwork · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A crescent moon tattoo sits on the inner wrist or forearm of a pale skin tone. The solid upper curve is filled with dense black dots, and the shading thins into sparser dots toward the lower tip, creating a soft gradient. The design is shown in black ink on a plain background, centred on the frame.

Dotwork Forearm Moon Crescent

Find an artist for this

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

At ten to four the flour had settled into every crack of the bench, and Nell Harcourt could still hear the proving cupboard ticking as the dough rose. She slid the last tray of tins onto the rack and looked out through the steamed glass at Ferry Lane, where the moon hung low over the chimneys like a paring someone had forgotten to throw away.

Keep reading

Her grandfather had kept the bakery for forty years and never once baked after the first bus rattled past the corner. He used to say the sky told you when the dough was ready, and that the moon was the last thing to leave the oven's shift. She had not believed him until this winter, when she started coming in alone, when the lamps in the flats across the road went dark one by one and only the moon stayed on.

At half four the bread went in. She scored each loaf with the razor, a quick slant, the way he had taught her, and kept her eyes on the blade. By five the sky over the lane had thinned to grey, and the moon had softened to a pale smudge along its lower edge, as though someone were rubbing it out with a thumb.

The first customer, Mrs Adeyemi from number nine, knocked on the glass with her purse before the sign was turned. Nell wrapped a warm cob in paper and pressed it into her hands, and when the door closed behind her the bell rang thin and bright. Nell looked up once more. The moon was gone, and on the windowsill a fine dust of flour lay where the last of it had been.