Small black and grey tattoos of a starburst sun with a face and a crescent moon with a star, placed on two fingers of a hand.

Sun and crescent moon on fingers

Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A starburst sun with a face and small dots sits on the upper finger, with a crescent moon and a small four-pointed star on the lower finger. The linework is bold and the shading is soft grey with some purple-tinged edges. The photograph is taken close up at an angle, with the two fingers filling the frame against a blue background.

Hand Sun Moon Crescent moon Star Starburst Face Dot

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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

Gather in close, you lot, and mind the embers, because this is the one about the sun who would not sleep. Back when the sky was still stitched together with dead satellites and rust, the sun up there had a proper face, with a crease at the brow from squinting at a world that never looked back. He was the loudest thing in the heavens and he knew it.

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Down the far side of the dark lived a moon called Mab, thin as a paring knife, who hung low over the salt flats of what used to be Lincolnshire. Her sister had gone under the grey ocean when the sea walls failed, and nobody remembers her name now. Mab was lonely in a practical way. She kept a tin of sea glass, a cracked sextant and a habit of counting the lamps still burning along the coast, one for each finger she had.

One night the sun burned so hot that the lamps went out one by one, out of sheer shame, and Mab came down to the flats to see what had happened. She found his face reflected in a rockpool, creased and blistering, and she said, you have forgotten how to close your eyes. He said he had never been taught. So she made him a bargain: every evening she would stand before him for an hour, small and cool, and in return he would let the stars come out before he turned his back.

That is why, when you walk out tonight and see the sun go down in a burst of spikes, the old ones say he is winking at her. And that is why the moon keeps her tiny star close by, still counting the lamps that are left. Now, who wants the next one, and who is going to fetch the kettle?