Black and white photo of two ankles, one with a fine line sun tattoo and the other with a fine line crescent moon tattoo, both on the ankle.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Sun and moon tattoos on two ankles

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

Two bare ankles rest against a dark leather surface, one wearing rolled denim. A small sun with rays is on the left ankle and a thin crescent moon is on the right. Both tattoos use delicate single-weight linework with no shading, and the monochrome photograph keeps the focus on the pair of small designs.

Fine line Ankle Sun Moon Crescent Celestial

Find an artist for this

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 snow closed the Hollin road on the third day, and after that the inn ran on two shifts that never met. I took the nights at the front desk and Bridie had the mornings in the kitchen. The only thing that passed between us was a battered ledger we left on the shelf by the hatch, between the coat pegs and the stove.

Keep reading

At first we wrote only what the ledger needed: four eggs, the boiler sulking, room six wanting another blanket. Then Bridie started drawing small things in the margins, a loaf, a kettle, a sparrow wedged in the eaves. I answered with what I saw from the desk at three in the morning: the moon sliding behind the far ridge, a fox crossing the car park as if it held the deeds, frost ferns creeping up the inside of the glass door.

One night in the second week the moon came up full and low, and I drew it fat and lopsided, then felt foolish, because it was the only thing in the valley that seemed to know its business. In the morning there was a sun beside my moon, scratched hard into the paper with a nib, its rays going out in every direction. Underneath, in her blunt capitals, she had written: YOU HAVE THE DARK HOURS. I WILL TAKE THE BRIGHT ONES. MIND THE STOVE.

The plough came through on the Thursday. I was asleep when the coaches started up, and when I came down the shelf was empty and the ledger had gone with the last guests. I never learned her surname, only the shape of her hand. Now, when the moon clears the ridge over the car park, I still look for that small hard sun beside it, and I still reach for the stove before I need to.