Black and white photo of a fine line arrow tattoo on the upper arm of a woman in a loose white top.

Fine line arrow on upper arm

Fine line · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a woman's upper arm showing a small, delicate arrow tattoo running diagonally down the skin. The arrow has thin single-line shaft, feathered fletching at the top and a small outlined arrowhead at the bottom. The image is well lit against a plain background, with the tattoo as the main focus.

Fine line 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

Right, sit down where the wind can't reach you, because this is the bit about the arrow, and you don't tell the arrow bit standing up. Flat fourteen, Ferrier House, the one with the lift that only goes up when it's in the mood. Everybody on the ninth floor swore the building had a tilt, and that anything dropped from a balcony would travel in a long slant down towards the car park, the way a rope of rain does.

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Mrs Okonedo had a bow her father carried out of Lagos in a suitcase, and she kept it behind the boiler cupboard where the council couldn't see it. Every Sunday she took it out, strung it with a length of washing line, and shot one arrow, fletched with pigeon feathers she'd collected off the ledge, over the estate. Nobody ever saw where they landed. That was the rule. You don't go looking for a thing you chose to let go.

One Sunday the boy from flat twelve, Dariusz, who was nine and had no sense, ran after the arrow across the car park and found it stuck point first in the bins by the bus stop. He brought it back up the stairwell two steps at a time, out of breath, and held it out. The arrowhead was small and outlined, the shaft as thin as a hair, and the feathers had been combed with care. "It's pointing home," he said.

She looked at it a long time. Then she told him to keep it, because an arrow that comes back to you has already told you where you live, and the rest of the story is only the walk. He still has it, I'm told, in a biscuit tin under a bed in a flat three hundred miles from here.