Fine line black tattoo of two arrows with feathered fletching running down the inner forearm towards the wrist.

Two arrows on the inner forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a person's inner forearm and hand, with a thin black tattoo of two arrows running vertically from near the elbow crease down towards the wrist. The feathered fletching sits at the top of the design and the arrowheads point downward, drawn with fine, even linework and no shading. The skin is light and the background is a plain grey, with a silver chain bracelet on the wrist and ripped denim visible at the left edge.

Fine line Forearm Arrow Feather

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The goose had been dead a week before Ada Pell thought to use its wing, and by then the workshop smelled of wet glue and the rain had found its way under the door. She split the quill with her thumbnail, the way her father had, and laid the feathers out on the bench in the order she meant to cut them. Two shafts of ash leaned against the wall. Mr Tolley had ordered them for the Whitsun shoot and paid in advance, which was the only reason she was still working on a Thursday.

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The first arrow went smoothly. She bound three feathers at the nock with thread waxed from a candle end, trimmed them with a razor, and held the shaft up to the window to check it was straight. The second was harder. Her brother Sam had always cut the tips, and since the autumn he had been at the mill in Maidstone, and the heads he had left behind were bent. She filed them true, muttering at the grey light.

On the morning of the shoot she carried the arrows down the lane in a sack. Tolley's boys were already at the butts, shouting over one another. Tolley took the sack without looking inside. "Good work, Pell," he said, and then, lower, "Your brother asked after you." She did not answer. She watched him push the arrows point-first into a bale of straw, feathers standing up like a pair of raised hands.

She stayed until the shouting stopped. When the butts were empty she crossed the wet grass and worked the arrows free, one after the other, and found the filed points had held. Nobody had asked her to come, and nobody would have noticed if she had gone home. She carried both shafts back under one arm, feathers brushing her cheek, and left the workshop door open so the rain could blow in across the bench.