Small black crescent moon tattoo on the inner wrist of a raised hand against a dark blue background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small crescent moon on the wrist

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A raised hand with fingers loosely curled shows a small, solid black crescent moon on the inner wrist. The moon is simple and minimal, with a smooth outline and little shading. The dark navy background and soft teal tones make the small black mark stand out.

Forearm Moon Crescent Hand

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The moon came down over Hollin Ford the night the lamplighter's boy forgot to climb the hill. Nobody blamed him at first, because the clouds had sat thick for a week and the lamps were lit regardless, a row of yellow eyes along the river. By the third night the dark had got into the bakehouse flour and the milk turned in the cold pantries, and old Mrs Abernethy said the sensible thing was to go up and ask.

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The villagers climbed Tallow Hill with a ladder, a tin bucket and a great deal of argument. They found the moon snagged in the gorse at the top, no bigger than a fingernail paring and thin as a bent hairpin, its light gone the colour of weak tea. Mrs Abernethy wanted it wrapped in a tea towel. Walter Pell, the cobbler, said a thing that cold ought to be kept in cold, so he fetched his offcuts of pale hide and his awl. He stitched a small hook from a strip of leather and hung the moon on it, and the hook held.

They carried it down in the bucket, but at the bottom it would not sit in the sky again. It kept slipping from the top of the church spire like a coin off a wet table. So they settled on a compromise. The moon went back up, hung a little lower on a length of waxed thread from the cobbler's shop, and anyone who needed light on a dark night could ask Walter for a loan of it.

On the nights when the sky is black as a cellar, Mrs Abernethy's granddaughter still walks up Tallow Hill with a torch in her coat pocket and ties a strip of leather to the gorse. The crescent over the river goes on hanging where the cobbler left it, thin and patient, waiting to be asked.