Thigh tattoo of a witch seated on a crescent moon beside moon phases, with green accents, dangling beads and small diamond shapes.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Witch on a crescent moon on a thigh

Thigh · Mixed · Photo

A witch in a pointed hat sits on a crescent moon, holding a broom, with a row of moon phases to the left and small diamond shapes above. Fine shading and linework define the figure and the ornate moon edge, and a chain of beads hangs from the moon's lower curve. The witch's clothing and details carry green ink, with the rest of the design in grey and black, set against bare skin with denim shorts and dark stockings at the top and bottom of the frame.

Thigh Witch Crescent moon Moon phase Bead Diamond Star

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lintel over the north arch still carries the moon, a crescent cut so deep that rain has filled its hollow with green moss. I spent my first week at Hollin Keep scrubbing it with a wire brush, because the trust wanted every carving photographed before the scaffolding went up. Nobody had warned me about the witch. She sat in the curve of the crescent with her broom across her knees, her hat a pointed thumb of stone, and someone long ago had picked out her sleeves in verdigris paint that the damp had nearly eaten away.

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Dad was a mason before me and taught me that old carvers never wasted a line. Beneath the crescent, a row of small discs ran from new moon to full, each with its shadow cut on one side. Beside them hung beads on a chain, drilled through so they swung, and above the moon a scatter of diamonds the weather had softened into dimples. I counted the phases twice. Seven were shaded. The eighth was blank, polished smooth as a pebble, as if someone had meant to come back and finish it.

On my last evening I wiped that blank disc with my sleeve and found a scratch under the grit: a tiny broom no bigger than a fingernail, and beside it a line of tally marks running off the edge of the stone. Someone had been counting nights until the moon filled. I sat in the cold with the beads knocking softly above my head and cut the last small arc of light myself.

When the trust's van pulled away the next morning, the moon over the arch was whole. Only the moss was left to argue with it.