Fine gold line drawing of a bow and arrow with diamond ornaments on a dark background, shown as a tattoo design with no body placement visible.

Fine line bow and arrow design

Fine line · Colour · Flash

A single arrow with a diamond-shaped nock and tip, rendered with a thin gold line, sits vertically through a curved bow. Small diamond motifs and dotted accents run down the shaft, with a sunburst mark at the top. The drawing is centred on a flat, dark brown-black background with no shading.

Fine line Geometric Bow Arrow Diamond Sunburst Ornament Line drawing

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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

You find the bow in the hayloft under a sack of seed potatoes, its string gone stiff with damp, and it still smells of the linseed oil your grandfather rubbed into it every October. Frost has got into the yard overnight and the water trough has a skin of ice thick enough to carry a sparrow. Your mother says the ewes will want their hay before the light is up, so you take the bow down anyway, along with the one arrow left in the quiver, its nock wrapped in red thread.

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Out past the top field the hedge is grey with rime. You string the bow the way he showed you, foot against the lower limb, and the wood gives with a sound like a held breath. The arrow has a diamond tip, filed by hand, and when you lift it the low sun catches the brass band near its tail and throws a spark onto the stubble. You aim at the old oak where the rooks roost. You do not loose it. Instead you walk back down the hill counting fence posts the way he counted them, one, then another, until the light goes flat.

On the third morning the arrow is gone from the quiver and there is a pale notch on the gatepost at the height of your shoulder. Someone has been out before you. Your father, perhaps, or the neighbour's boy who always cuts across the glebe. Nobody admits it at breakfast. The bread is still warm and the kettle is singing on the range.

At dusk you go out with the bow across your back and find the arrow lying in the trough, shaft up, its diamond tip dark under the ice. Ice is letting go of the edge in small plates. You kneel and lift it out, and the water runs off the brass as if it had been waiting to be asked. You still don't know who took it. You hang it back on the nail by the door and leave the bow unstrung, because some things are kept for the spring.