Black and white photo of a fine line geometric arrow tattoo with dot accents and chevron fletching on the inner forearm near the wrist.

Fine line arrow tattoo on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a thin, black arrow tattoo running down the inner forearm towards the wrist, with a triangular head at the top and chevron fletching at the base. Small dots and a short arc sit along the shaft and near the feathers, all drawn in clean single lines. The photo is black and white, so the ink appears as solid black against pale skin, with a blurred background of a room and a patterned curtain.

Fine line Geometric Forearm Arrow Dot Chevron Arc

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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

Sit closer, the lot of you, the canvas has a tear over the lion cage and the wind gets in like a bad tenant. You want the story of Ada Wren, who shot for Lusk's Travelling Wonders the last season the big top stood? Then mind the sawdust. I had it from the rigger, who had it from the arrow, or so he swore, and he never could be trusted sober.

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Ada could split a playing card at forty paces with shafts she cut herself from ash grown on the old canal bank. Every arrow carried a row of small dots down its length, one for each town the show had fallen out of, and by Scarrow Fair the shafts looked like braille for a language nobody had written. Lusk loved it. The crowd liked counting. He wanted her to hit the crescent painted on the tent flap every night, so the bills could read WREN STRIKES THE SILVER MOON, and she did, for three seasons, without once looking at the target.

Then came a wet Tuesday when the crowd was three people and a dog. Ada loosed her arrow and it flew wide, over the rope, past the toffee apple stall, and stuck quivering in the mud by the wagons. Lusk went white and docked her a week's pay. Ada only walked out to the mud, pulled the shaft free and ran her thumb along the dots. She had miscounted for years. There was one more dot than there were towns, and it was the one for here.

The show was folded into a lorry before dawn, bound for the coast, and Ada went with it, or she didn't. The rigger swears the arrow stayed in the mud at Scarrow, its red feathers bleached pink by the rain, pointing north. Lusk never sent for it. Nobody ever does. Mind the tear on your way out, it's been there since the lion had opinions of its own.