Back view of a woman with a platinum blonde fishtail braid and a small dark crescent moon tattoo on her upper back, placed beside a white crochet top.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fishtail braid with small crescent tattoo on the back

Back · Black and grey · Photo

The photo shows a woman seen from behind, with a platinum blonde fishtail braid falling over a white crochet crop top. A small dark crescent or moon tattoo sits on her upper back to the right of the braid, partly hidden by the top's strap. The tattoo is solid and simple, the warm skin tones and pale background dominate the composition, and the hair is the main subject.

Back Crescent Moon Braid Hair

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nell Trewin was halfway through plaiting the last of the net-line when the mist rolled in off Gwenning Point, thick enough to swallow the tower lamp before it had a chance to turn. Her father had climbed the stairs at dusk with his bad knee and a flask of tea, and he had not come down. She tied off the cord, three tarred strands laid over and under until they formed a fishtail, the way her mother used to set a plait for church, and she took the storm lantern across the wet yard.

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The iron door at the foot of the tower stood ajar. Someone had scratched a crescent into the whitewash beside it, a thin moon no bigger than a palm, the same mark her father chalked on the tally board whenever the spring tides were due. Nell touched it with a wet thumb. The chalk smeared, and she thought of the boats out past the reef, the ones that had gone quiet an hour ago and not answered the horn.

She climbed the iron ladder counting rungs, because counting kept her from thinking about the drop. At the top her father sat with his back against the cold lens, staring at the grey where the sea should be. "Thought you'd come," he said. "Lamp's dead and my knee won't take the ladder again."

She trimmed the wick, struck a match on her boot, and waited for the flame to catch. When the beam finally swung out over the fog, a pale horn cutting the murk, somewhere below a dinghy with a cracked oar turned its bow toward the light and kept turning until the rocks were behind it.