A. C.

“And though she be but little, she is fierce. ” -Shakespeare

I feel the tension in my muscles as I prepare. I feel the string, tightened, in my cold fingers. I feel my warm breath leave my body.  I feel the air around me, the stillness of the raucous crowd disturbing the feel of the arena. I feel the cold, sleek metal of my arrow, and the pain that is in my fingertips when I nick them off against the rough tip of the arrow that currently resides in my bow, my weapon of choice.  I feel my front foot slowly begin to slide forwards, as I feel my life flashing away. I feel my fingers relax, and I feel instinct take over my body. I feel my arrow fly, feel the loss of weight in my bow. I feel the cold ice sting my face hard as I collapse. I feel too tense, I feel fear. I feel my end coming closer, feel my body instinctively brace for impact that doesn’t come. I feel the relieved energy of the onlookers bringing me to my feet. And with my numb face I feel a grin spreading across my cheeks, and it’s all over.




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