Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Arrow tattoo on a forearm
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A small arrow is tattooed on the forearm, pointing up towards the elbow, with a slim shaft and a pointed head with feathered fletching at the base. The linework is thin and mostly uniform, with light grey shading along the shaft. The photograph is taken at a slight angle, with the open hand extended in the foreground and a dim, muted background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Nell found the box of arrows under the bunk on the third day the Patience sat stuck at Hungerford lock, its gates shut against a flood that had not yet decided to leave. Her uncle had never once mentioned a bow. The shafts were ash, straight as a rule, and the fletching was goose feather bound with thread the colour of stewed tea.
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"Feathers want to be fed to the wind," Ivo said when she carried one up to the towpath. He took it from her and turned it so the light ran through the vanes. "Fix them wrong and the whole thing wanders. Fix them right and it finds the mark even when you're not looking at it." He did not say what mark. He never did.
They worked the boat upstream the next morning, Nell on the towrope with the water dragging at her boots, the old horse long dead and nobody to replace it but her own shoulders. Halfway to the next lock she stopped to breathe and saw that the reeds on the far bank all leaned the same way, towards the sea, as if the river had combed them flat and forgotten to stop.
That evening she took a penknife to the cabin door and cut one small arrow into the paint, point up, shaft slim, feathers at the tail. Ivo studied it from the bank with his pipe gone out. "Not bad," he said. "Going the wrong way, mind." She told him she knew.
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