Two photographs of fine line black arrow tattoos on the inner forearm, one with circles along the shaft and one with geometric triangles and a chevron feather.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Arrow tattoos on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The image shows two views of the same forearm, each with a black ink arrow tattoo. The top arrow has a fine line shaft decorated with overlapping circles and a feathered fletching, while the lower arrow has a solid triangular head, a chevron feather and a dotted tail ending in a small ring. The linework is thin and precise, with light shading and the greys of the skin giving a clean, minimal composition.

Fine line Geometric Dotwork Forearm Arrow Feather Circle Triangle Chevron 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

The last of the evening crowd had thinned to two lads and a wind that kept lifting the tarpaulin at the back of Dacre's Shooting Gallery. Ada Pryce counted the tin ducks twice, then a third time, because her father had always said a stallholder who trusts her own count is a stallholder who gets robbed. The lamp above the counter hummed. Beyond the caravans, the big wheel stood still against a sky the colour of wet slate.

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The boy who came back was the one who had lost his nerve at four o'clock. He laid a coin on the wood and asked for a bow with a pull he could manage. She gave him the short one with the cracked grip she had meant to mend since Lincoln. "Aim for the rings, not the centre," she said. "The centre is for people who want to be looked at." He drew, held, and let go. The arrow ran true through the shaft of lamplight, feathers blurring, and the wooden hoop at the back of the booth rattled once.

He didn't cheer. He just looked at the hoop, then at her, as if a sum he had been failing all afternoon had finally come out right. She fetched the arrow from where it had lodged and turned it over in her fingers. The tail had three dots of fresh paint where she marked the lucky shots, and the head had split a little on the hard maple. Her father's knife would fix that in the morning.

She gave him the arrow without charging for the last shot, which her father would have called bad business. Then she pulled the tarp down over the ducks and watched him walk out past the dark wheel, the feathered end held up in front of him like a torch.