Fine line black arrow tattoo on the forearm below the elbow, with a small cluster of dots on the upper arm, shown on a bare arm beside a white t-shirt.

Dot cluster and small arrow on an arm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small black arrow sits on the inner forearm below the elbow, drawn in thin, even linework. Above it on the upper arm is a loose cluster of tiny black dots, arranged in an irregular scatter. The tattoos are shown in soft natural light against a blurred brick background, with the subject's face out of frame.

Fine line Dotwork Forearm Upper arm Arrow

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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

Shuffle in, the lot of you, and mind the lamp, it has never liked a draught. This is the one about Maud Corrigan and the crow that stole the seed. Back when the Salt Flats were still white to the horizon and the wells ran shallow as a saucer, Maud kept the last grain store in Hollin Reach, and she kept it with a bow older than her mother.

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The crow came every dusk for a month. It was clever, that crow, clever enough to work the knot of the sack loose with its beak and walk off with a mouthful before anyone could load a string. Maud's neighbours said let it be, there is enough sky for everyone. Maud said there was not enough grain for everyone, and she was not going to feed a bird that had done nothing but sit on her roof and laugh at her.

So one evening, with the sun sinking red over the brick kilns, she drew and let fly. The arrow went up, and up, past the chimneys, past the last gull, and she swore afterwards it never came down at all. Instead, in the place where the crow should have fallen, the seeds it had carried spilled out of the dusk like a handful of thrown salt, and each one caught the last light and held it.

The next morning the crow was gone, the sack was full, and high over the kilns hung a scatter of little lights that looked nothing like a bird and everything like a road. Maud's arrow, they say, still points the way to water, though nobody has ever found the shaft. Now off you go, and count the lights before you sleep. If you lose your place, start again. That is what the sky is for.