Black fine line geometric arrow tattoo running vertically along the forearm, with a triangular head, chevron fletching and stacked horizontal lines.

Geometric arrow on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single arrow tattoo runs vertically down the skin, with a triangular head at the top, a thin straight shaft, a small hourglass-like notch with stacked lines, and chevron fletching at the base. The linework is thin and solid black with no shading, set against a plain, lightly lit skin background. The arrow sits centrally in the frame, with the lower part of the arm visible below it.

Fine line Geometric 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 step, the cobbles are wet from the fountain man's hose, and sit where I can see your faces. You want the arrow now, the one the surveyor's girl was always drawing on the cistern wall? Then listen, because it only works told slow.

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Maud Ferrier kept a fletcher's bench in Hollin Street, under the sign with the gilt goose on it, and she worked by one tallow candle after the lamps were dimmed by order of the Council. The night-coach brought her grey goose wings from the moors in a sack that smelled of wet heather. She cut each feather to a chevron with a blade no longer than a finger, and she never once measured with a rule, because a rule lies in the dark. A straight line, she said, is only straight if you have walked it.

The clockmaker's apprentice, Tobias Wren, came to her on the feast of St Ansel with a request and a fistful of coins. He needed a shaft drawn from the bell tower window of St Ansel's to the river gate, a clean line that would cross the dead bell's rope at exactly the hourglass notch where the old chime was stopped. Maud took the tower key from her apron and climbed with the bow over her shoulder. At the top, she loosed the arrow into the fog, and it flew true, humming, through the whole sleeping city.

It struck the cobbles at the river gate, right at the feet of the lamplighter's boy, who had been standing precisely where the triangle said he would. The shaft lay straight as a line drawn with a rule, the fletching still trembling. And the bells of St Ansel's, which had been silent for thirty years, rang nine times in the grey dawn, though it was only eight o'clock by the river. That is the arrow. Mind the step on your way out.