Black and white photo of a small fine line arrow tattoo on the inner forearm, pointing right against a dark leather background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fine line arrow on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small arrow pointing to the right runs across the forearm, with a shaft of thin, single-weight linework and a fletching of three pairs of feather-like barbs at the tail end. The arrow is rendered in black ink with no shading, and the greyscale photograph shows a clean, precise line. The skin fills most of the frame against a dark leather surface, with the tattoo placed near the centre of the image.

Fine line Forearm 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

Mind the bottom stair, it gives under a man who talks too much, and sit where the fire can reach your knees. Now. You want the arrow, not the bow. The bow is only a bent argument. The arrow is the thing that goes somewhere.

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Old Tobias Wren cut his shafts from ash at the forest's edge, where the trees stop pretending to be a wall and let the village look in. He fletched them with three pairs of grey goose barbs, always three, because his mother said two pairs made a shaft fly crooked and four pairs made it lazy. He never once said what a lazy arrow did. Children asked. He only tapped the tail and said, you'll find out.

The autumn the baron's men came for the oaks, Tobias sat on his bench with a single shaft across his knees, drawing a line down it with a stick of charcoal. A boy from the mill asked him where it would go. Tobias pointed east, past the church, past the ford, past everything a man could see from his doorstep. "Far enough," he said, "to be somebody else's problem."

Then the boy ran down the lane with the shaft held level, the way he'd been told, and he did not stop until he reached the baron's gate. Nobody ever learned what he said there. But the oaks stood until spring, the wood-men went home with their saws gone cold, and the arrow was never found, which is the only proper end for a good arrow.