Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Small arrow tattoo on the hand
Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo
A close photograph of a small black arrow tattoo on the back of a pale hand, with the arrowhead pointing up towards the fingers. The linework is thin and solid, with no shading, and the ink is black against the skin. The hand is raised near the head, and the cropped frame shows a dark blue sweatshirt and long brown hair.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The snow had come down the pass two days early, so I was the only fletcher still willing to walk the goat road to Hollin Gap with a quiver on my back. My father's arrows were heavier than they looked. Each shaft was ash, each head a sliver of grey flint bound with waxed sinew, and he had taught me to set the feathers so they would spin true in a crosswind. In twenty winters I had never once been trusted to carry the good ones.
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The message came up from the tollhouse at Cold Tarn in the hands of a girl with frozen ears. Her brother had gone over the scree after a ewe and the rope bridge had snapped under him. He was alive, she said, but his leg was bent wrong and he could not reach the far bank. The old way was an arrow with a line tied to its shaft, shot across the gap so a heavier cord could be dragged over and made fast. Nobody had done it in my lifetime, and the wind in that gorge pulls like a dog on a lead.
I stood on the lip of the ravine with my breath frozen to my scarf and waited for the gust to drop. When it did, I loosed. The arrow climbed thin and black against the white cliff, hung at the top of its arc for a moment, then turned over on itself as though it had remembered something, and dropped toward the far side. The cord whipped out behind it like a tail. It fell into a drift below the opposite ridge, and a long minute passed before a hand came up out of the snow, gloved and shaking, holding the shaft high with its point to the sky, the way you hold a thing you mean to keep.
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