Black and grey fine line arrow tattoo with feathered fletching and dotwork detail on the upper arm, surrounded by thin geometric circles.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Arrow with geometric circles on upper arm

Fine line · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A single arrow runs diagonally across the upper arm, with feathered fletching at the top and a detailed patterned shaft. Around the arrowhead, thin circles and small dots radiate outwards, adding a geometric structure to the design. The work is rendered in black ink with fine lines and stippled shading against a soft, blurred background.

Fine line Geometric Dotwork Upper arm Arrow Feather Circle Dot Geometric line

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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

Sit down, the lot of you, before the sausage rolls go cold. You'll not remember Mr Halloran's archery club behind the gymnasium, because most of you were too busy hiding from the rounders ball. But I remember. I remember the summer of 1961, when Tom Ashby loosed a grey goose-feathered arrow with a shaft painted in fine diamonds, and I remember exactly where it went.

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It cleared the netball court, cleared the railings, and dropped point first into the middle of the stone sundial by the infants' door. The brass gnomon rang like a bell. Every hour mark around that dial had a little dot cut into it, and the arrow stood among them as if someone had planned the spot. Mr Halloran said nobody touches it until the school board sends a man. So it stood there all term, and Tom went back every evening after the bell, scratching circles in the gravel with a compass he'd borrowed from the woodwork room.

He was working out the angle, he told me once, so he could shoot it again and never miss the same place twice. He became a surveyor in the end, measuring the county for the council, forever plotting rings of distance from fixed points. The last time I saw him, he showed me a photograph of that sundial, the arrow still standing in the stone, rusted to the colour of tea. He swore it pointed straight at the bell tower of St Hilda's. Then he laughed and said it pointed at the one place none of us had the nerve to go back to. Eat your pastry, Denise. The rest of the story is the cake.