Black fine line tattoos of a star, crescent moon and eye with rays on the fingers and back of a hand, worn alongside black jewelled rings.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fine line star, moon and eye tattoos on fingers

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A hand with long pale pink nails is shown against a plain grey background, with black jewelled rings on several fingers. Small black tattoos of a crescent moon, a star, an eye with radiating lines, an arrow and fine dots sit on the fingers and back of the hand. The ink is black and grey with delicate linework, and the composition is close and centred on the hand.

Fine line Dotwork Hand Star Moon Eye Arrow Dot Shell Ring

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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 last number 9 leaves the depot at twenty past one, and by then the city has stopped pretending to be asleep. You know its back streets the way other people know their own kitchens: which pub spills out at closing, which chip shop keeps its hatch open until the bread runs out. Before you pull on your gloves you look up, because your grandmother always said the sky is the first map and the streets only copy it.

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Tonight the moon is a thin paring over the gasworks, and the star above it is the only one the cloud has left alone. You have driven under that star through eleven winters of night shifts, counting the blocks in pairs and watching for the painted eye on the side of the Argyle Street bookies, which someone redid in the spring after the rain took the first one. A salt-bleached whelk shell sits on the dashboard, picked up at Skegness and kept for luck, and you can still smell the harbour in the drains on wet nights.

At the stop on Leeds Road a man in a soaked anorak waves you down, a folded A to Z pressed flat against his chest. He wants the river, and he wants it quick. You point, your finger straight as the arrow inked across the back of your hand, and tell him the road past the gasworks is shorter in the dark, though it smells worse. He looks at your hand, at the scattered dots and the small watching eye, and asks if that's a map. You tell him it is, of a sort, and he laughs and climbs aboard.

When he gets off at the bridge you sit with the engine ticking and watch the moon slide behind a chimney. The eye on your finger keeps its patient stare on the empty road. Two hours from now the city will wake up and start shouting again, but for a few minutes the star is yours, and the river is lit from below by its own pale light.