Small black double chevron tattoo in fine line style on the back of a neck, with dark hair falling across the skin.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Double chevron on the back of the neck

Fine line · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of two small black chevrons stacked one above the other, pointing upwards, on the back of a neck. The lines are thin and slightly broken, giving a dotted, hand-poked look. The ink is set against pale skin, with dark hair and a grey knitted collar at the edges of the frame.

Fine line Neck Chevron Arrow Minimal

Find an artist for this

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 paint pot had a cracked lid, so Maud carried it in her coat pocket up the Scar path, and the ochre came out in stutters. That was how the marks got their look: two short strokes hooked at the top, broken wherever the brush ran dry. Ned from the farm below said nobody in fog would read a dotted line as a way through. Maud said the sheep had never complained.

Keep reading

The marks went on the grey boulders from the bottom gate to the col, always pointing uphill, because the walkers who got into trouble on the tops were the ones who turned round and started down into the bog at Greyhurst. Up was the hut. Up was the stove and the tin of biscuits and the lamp Maud left burning in the window from October to April. A chevron pointing up said keep going, you are nearly there, and that was the only sermon she had ever wanted to preach.

In the second week of November a whiteout came over the col at four in the afternoon. Maud heard shouting below the wall and went out with a torch that did nothing but light the fog from inside. She found a man in a yellow jacket on his knees by a stone, feeling for a mark he could not see. She put his hand on the chevron, then on the next one, and walked him from stone to stone until the lamp showed through the murk.

In the morning she counted the marks down the slope. Seven were still bright. The eighth had gone under a slide of wet scree, so she knelt on the cold rock and painted it again, two strokes, a gap, two strokes, pointing up.