Draw. Knock. Pull. Aiming. The tree, about twenty steps away. It was a tall oak whose leaves hung over the field. Twenty steps away. Release, the arrow was off course. Was it the wind again or was it just a missed shot? It doesn’t matter, it’s just practice. The next arrow is mine. I remember the motion I’ve practiced over and over again. Draw. Knock. Pull. Aim. The target was the same. It was at the same distance. I’ve done this at least a hundred times and I’ve hit the target at least thirty times in those hundred arrows. I can do better, I will do better. The wind stopped, the target is ready. The last arrow. The last arrow. The last arrow. But there are more by the tree? Not thinking. Don’t distract me. Release. Whistle. A cry.
Blood.
Awake now.
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The Last Arrow
Submitted by Ashbark on March 19th, 2019
