Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Fine line arrow on a forearm
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A small arrow tattoo runs diagonally along the forearm, with a pointed arrowhead at one end and feathered fletching at the other. The linework is thin and single-needle style, with small dots spaced along the shaft. The ink is black on a plain, light background, with the hand visible at the lower left.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Nobody on the fleet trusted a radio in fog, so when the Morag Ann lost her mast in the Minch and drifted blind, Old Dougal Reid handed you the longbow from under the wheelhouse bench. It was the one thing aboard that had never been painted. "Throw a line, not a shout," he said, and pressed a ball of tarred twine into your palm.
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You stood at the rail with the swell lifting the bow and the foghorn going somewhere to the east. The boat you wanted was a grey smudge, maybe two hundred yards off. You had tied a knot into the twine every fathom as he'd taught you, so you knew the range by feel, the small hard bumps under your thumb, counting them out under your breath the way the girls used to skip rope on the quay.
The first shaft went wide and sank with its tail of twine. Dougal said nothing. The second, you let go on the breath out, and it hissed into the murk and was gone. A long minute later a faint tug came back along the line, then two tugs, then the whole length of it singing taut.
They towed the Morag Ann in before the tide turned. Afterwards you cut the fletching off the spent arrow and kept the bare shaft on a nail above your bunk. Whenever you walk down to the harbour now, you count the knots in your head, one for every boat that came home because somebody threw true.
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