Black and grey yin yang tattoo on a back with a sun face and crescent moon inside, with a black linework sun, moon and stars flash design shown above it.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Sun and moon yin yang tattoo on a back

Back · Black and grey · Photo

The lower half shows a healed black and grey yin yang tattoo on a bare back, with a smiling sun face on the light side and a crescent moon with small stars on the dark side. The upper half is a black linework flash drawing of a sun with a face, a crescent moon and six small stars on a cream background. Shading is soft and greyed, with the lighter areas and blended edges giving the circle a sense of depth.

Back Sun Moon Star Yin yang Crescent moon

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Brother Anselm had kept the sundial at Saint Ebba's for thirty-one winters, and in all that time the sun had never once looked at him the way it did the morning the abbot sent for him. It rose over the east wall as it always did, gold and sly, grinning through its rays like a man who knows the punchline. Anselm stood on the cold flags with his ledger under one arm and his breath smoking, and he waited for the moon to finish its shift in the west.

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The moon was thin that week, a crescent pared so fine it looked like a fingernail clipping left on the sky. Every dawn the two of them passed the day between them like a coin, the sun taking the bright half of the world while the moon kept the dark, and the monks had long ago stopped remarking on it. Only Anselm had ever noticed the stars that hung on in the blue above the bell tower, six of them, stubborn and small, refusing to go out until the very last minute.

The abbot wanted the sundial moved. The bishop's men had measured the chapel and found it crooked by a finger's width, and a crooked dial, they said, was a lying dial. Anselm carried the brass plate down to the cellar that afternoon and sat with it on his knees. Under the grime he found an engraving he had never bothered to read: two faces, one sun and one moon, chasing each other around a single circle, and on the dark side a scatter of stars that the maker had cut with a tiny chisel.

He set the plate back on the stone and left it exactly where it was. Let the bishop measure. A thing that turns both ways, Anselm thought, cannot be crooked; it can only be waiting for its turn.