The Wound

Tension trembles in your bicep as the string bites. Shoulder blades press together until the muscle between them screams. The bow wants to close. Your body wants to let it. Every tendon begs for the snap that ends this. You hold. The bow holds you back. The draw deepens. Your elbow slides past the point of no return. Your anchor settles against your jawbone, and held pressure becomes a holy hush – held breath before thunder. The string you pull against is the only force that can throw the arrow. The string whips forward. The arrow is gone. You exhale. Your arm drops, suddenly light, as you watch the distance fold.

The Path

You feared the taut string, mistook the bent wood for a cage. The bow was never the cage. The flinch was. You fit nock to string. You pull. The wood groans. Sweat stings your eyes. Your sight wavers over the target. The bow trembles. The string's complaint thins to a gathered hum. There. The exact instant the draw stops becoming power and starts becoming damage. Your fingers open. The release is so clean your mind arrives late. The target shudders. In your grip, the bow is still trembling.

The Shadow

The hand can fail the bow by releasing too soon, or never releasing at all. The Gentle held once until muscle gave way; she no longer trusts that tension resolves into flight. Her hands learnt the flinch before her mind could argue. Now, each time the string cuts into her fingers, her hands spring open before the ache arrives. She nocks another. Pulls. Releases early, every time. The arrows fly clean and short. Her hands stay uncalloused. She spends her life hitting only the targets that demand nothing of her draw. She dies with arrows strewn between her and every target that ever mattered – each one released a breath too soon. ❖ The Poised learns a different lesson from the same string. He pulls – and holds. Not yet, he whispers. He freezes on the threshold. As long as he holds, the arrow stays perfect. As long as he holds, he cannot miss. He has watched arrows fly. They land, and then they are only sticks in dirt. The wood warps and the limbs forget their spring. A crescent bruise blooms along his jaw. At dusk he stands alone, bow drawn, eyes watering. His arm has stopped shaking. It has simply locked. They find him at dawn, still standing, still drawn. Arrow perfect. Bow frozen. Target untouched.

The Cut