Colour neo-traditional tattoo of a green luna moth with eye markings, gold chains and purple crystal pendants on the thigh.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Green luna moth with chains and crystals on a thigh

Neo-trad · Thigh · Colour · Photo

A large green luna moth with eye markings on its wings sits at the centre of the design, with a gold-toned body and chains hanging from its wings. Two purple crystal pendants dangle from the chains below, and a pale lotus-like shape with fine linework sits above the moth. The bold black outlines and layered green shading contrast with the dark background of the photograph.

Neo-trad Thigh Moth Eye Chain Crystal Lotus

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain has been coming sideways across Gallowgate Market since four, and you have stopped pretending the awning keeps anything dry. Your stall sits between a man selling cracked phone screens and a woman who sells candles that smell of wet pennies. Under the tarpaulin you have pinned three moths to a board, luna moths, pale green as unripe pears, each with its round eyes watching the crowd as if it had paid for a ticket.

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Old Mrs Achterberg from the fish stall comes by with a carrier bag of mackerel and asks what you think you're doing with moths in a downpour. You tell her they were in the cellar of your late aunt's house in Hull, behind a wall of tins, and they have not yet decided to leave. She looks at the chains you have strung from the board, the little amethyst points swinging at their ends, and says nothing about what they cost to make. She only wets her thumb and rubs at a smear on the glass.

By six the lamps are on and the market smells of frying onions. A boy with a rucksack stops at the board and asks whether the moths are real. You tell him they are the kind that never eat, because they were born without mouths and only ever wanted to be looked at in the dark. He laughs, then doesn't. When you hand him the smallest one he holds it up to the sodium light, and the eyes on its wings catch the orange, and for a moment the whole board seems to lean toward him.

You sell none of them that night. You fold the tarpaulin, unhook the chains one by one, and carry the moths home inside your coat where the rain can't reach them. On the bus one of them begins to glow faintly, or perhaps that is only the reflection of your own tired face in the window, and you decide that either will do.