Fine line tattoo of an arrow with feathered fletching and an open arrowhead, curving across the inner forearm near the wrist.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fine line arrow and feather on forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single black fine line arrow runs diagonally across the inner forearm, with a sketched feather or leaf-like fletching at the tail and an outlined arrowhead at the top right. A thin curved line loops beneath the shaft, and the linework is even and delicate with no shading. The photograph is taken at a close angle against a plain skin background, with the tattoo as the clear focus.

Fine line Forearm Arrow Feather Arrowhead Leaf

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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

Mind the lift, it smells worse than the stairs, but sit where the draught can't reach you. Right. Nobody on the ninth floor of Harrow Point believed in arrows, and that was the trouble, because one came down anyway, out of a clear Tuesday sky, and stuck itself in the railing outside Mrs Okafor's flat with its feather still trembling on the tail.

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Her boy, Tobi, was seven and wanted it for a sword. His mother said no, the council man said it was a hazard, and the pigeons said nothing at all. So the arrow stayed in the railing for a week, and every morning the feather had shifted a little further along, as if it were tracing the edge of the estate, past the bins, past the car park, past the bus stop where the buses no longer stopped.

On the seventh morning the arrowhead had gone. Only the shaft remained, looped round by a single thin line of wire that ran down the side of the building, under the fence and out towards the river. Tobi followed it. He was gone until the streetlights came on, and when they found him he was sitting on the bank with one hand flat on the wire, and it was humming, the way a fence does when the wind is in the right place.

He never told anyone where the wire went. The railing's been painted over twice since, and the feather is gone, but if you stand on the ninth floor at dusk you can still hear it, faint as a kettle in another flat, carrying something back up the hill.