Fine line tattoo of geometric arrows with small coloured dots on the upper arm, shown against a dark background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Arrows and coloured dots on upper arm

Fine line · Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

A photograph of a woman's upper arm, with the arm raised, showing a tattoo of several arrows flying diagonally across the skin. The arrows are drawn in thin black outlines with some hatched and filled arrowheads in red and orange, and small circles in teal, pink and yellow scattered around them. The composition is sparse and airy, with the linework running from the elbow up towards the shoulder.

Fine line Geometric Upper arm Arrow Arrowhead Dot Circle Line Triangle

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nell had painted the dots on the shafts before the light came up, one colour for each of the Hallam brothers, because on the Ditchling shoot nobody could tell their own arrows apart once the wind got into the field. Teal for Abel, who shot high and cursed when he missed. Pink for the younger one, Tom, who never missed anything he did not want to. Yellow for herself, though she had never once been asked to shoot.

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The brothers came down the chalk track at nine with their bows across their shoulders and their breath still smoking. Abel took the red-fletched arrows from the bench without looking, the way he took everything his father had left him. Tom wanted the orange heads, sharp as a sewing needle, and argued until Nell gave him the last two in the quiver. Nobody asked which arrow was hers. The bench was crowded with feathers and glue pots and the smell of linseed.

They shot until the sun cleared the beacon. Abel's arrows went wide to the left, then wider, and by noon he was out in the stubble hunting for them. Tom's went long, skimming over the hedge into the Tranter's orchard, and he went after those with a bad temper and a handful of cider apples. Nell stayed on the bench and sanded a shaft smooth until the yellow dot on it was worn to a thumbprint.

By dusk the field was empty except for six arrows stuck point-first in the chalk. Nell pulled them one by one and counted the dots. Teal, pink, pink, teal, yellow, yellow. She laid them on the sill to dry, and in the morning the spots had run into the grain, so that nobody could say whose was whose, which Nell thought was the most honest thing the shoot had ever produced.