Small black geometric arrow tattoo with triangular head and feathered fletching on the inner forearm, near the wrist.

Geometric arrow tattoo on a forearm

Geometric · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small black arrow tattoo sits on the inner forearm, angled diagonally with a triangular head built from overlapping outlines and chevron-shaped fletching at the tail. The linework is crisp and even, with solid black fills on the shaft and small dots at the tail end. The arm rests across a black top beside gold bangles and a gold spike pendant necklace, with the tattoo as the clear focus.

Geometric Forearm Arrow Triangle Geometric shape Feather

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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 third stair, love, it's loose, and always was, ever since the winter the tide came under the back door and floated Mr Renn's trunk halfway to the scullery. Sit by the range. No, the chair with the good springs. You'll want to hear about the arrow on the dresser.

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Tobias Renn took the top front room every August for eleven summers. He was a chart man, or said he was, and he drew triangles the way other men whistled. Every bill he paid came with a little sketch in the margin: a sail cut into thirds, a gull folded flat, a church spire squared off. He kept his pencils in a tobacco tin and his lamp lit till the small hours.

The summer Ada Pim came to help with the beds, he was already cutting the arrow into the windowsill with his compass point. Three triangles nested like lighthouses, feathers stacked behind them in neat chevrons, the shaft so black it looked wet. "Points true to the harbour," he told her. "Every boat that's ever left has come home by it."

Ada didn't care for the harbour. Her brother had gone out on the Betsy Jane and not come back, and the constable said the sea keeps what it likes. So one night she took the lamp up the back stairs, past the loose step, and followed the arrow's shaft across the boards to the attic wall, where it pointed, sharp as a bailiff, at a rolled chart pinned behind the beam. On it, in Tobias's small square hand, was the Betsy Jane's last course, and beneath it a note: Not lost. Taken off the chart by fishermen at Gull Rock. Will tell her myself.

He never did. He left in September owing eleven weeks' rent. But the arrow is still on my sill, love, and I've never once scrubbed it off.