His fingers had begun to sting but he hardly noticed them.  The burn of the string didn’t register.  His focus was on his form, on the nock, on the target.  His vision seemed to shrink as he steadied his breathing and prepared to release.  His anchor was good.  His positioning was good.  His grip on the bow was steady but loose.

With a fluttering whine and a thunk, the arrow buried into the paper.  Another bullseye, or near enough.

He smiled.  He was learning quickly and having fun.  The first was a surprise, the later not so much.  He had always enjoyed target practice.  He had always assumed he would enjoy working with a bow and arrows too, he had just never had the opportunity before.  Based on the few experiences he had in his younger days, he had assumed that it would take a long time for him to get good.  Whatever the reason, the calmness of his body inherent in no longer being a child or the humility to receive instruction that comes from experience and wisdom, he picked up the right form very quickly and his groupings continued to shrink.

One more skill that could be useful at some point but that he hoped he would never need.  With society crumbling with each passing day, though, he was actively pursuing all the skills he might need.  Given the number of people at the range learning with him, he was pleased at how many other people seemed ready to stand up and ensure their own future.  Then again, he was only guessing that’s why they were there.  Perhaps they had other reasons.

Again, he hoped he never had to find out what those were.



The web clung to his shoe, as only webs can, sticky and stringing out in tendrils.  He, of course, hadn’t meant to walk through it but he was terrible about such things.  With his mind always on other things, he tended to walk into things and trip over his feet, even when he was looking down at them.  His thoughts were rarely with his eyes.  Not that he was always working on world saving problems, his ambitions were not that lofty.  His mind simply never found it easy to be in the present, the here, the now.

The web presented an obstacle to that, though.  He hated spiders.  And removing the web would be a challenge.  He couldn’t brush it away with his hand.  The web would just transfer over.  He could try to scuff his shoe against a curb or wall but that might do nothing more than mar the polish.  He had no tissue or other paper handy he could sacrifice to the cause.  So, the tendrils continued to drag and stretch out behind each of his steps and his thoughts became so stuck on the matter that he missed the door opening in front of him until he had crashed into it.

After picking himself up, dusting himself off, accepting the apology of the person who opened the door – who wasn’t at fault but apologized anyway – he was pleased to note that the web had come free in the commotion.  The last of it drifted in creeps and crawls along the sidewalk until he caught on a grate and waved menacing taunts in the breeze.  Glad to be rid of the web, he continued on with his journey and his thoughts soon returned to other matters, some more pressing than others.

All things considered, a walk with only two unwanted bumps wasn’t bad.  He had suffered far worse in shorter distances.  He seemed to always run into a few things.  He had no intentions of being more mindful, though.  That wasn’t his way and he was too old to want to change.

viva la

Another silly poem post
Just because I like to write them most
Perhaps that isn’t true
Then again, who knows why I do the things I do
I don’t know, that’s for sure
The words decide where to go
And my fingers only work to assist
But this is the last you’ll have to endure
The last this month with rhyming flow
The urge for more, I shall resist


He was King.  Not by birthright.  Not by succession or election. But because he had worked for it, fought for it, scraped and kicked and gouged and won battle after battle as he ascended to the top, to the throne.  And there he sat, surveying his dominion, King of all he could see.

For the next fifteen minutes or so, anyway, until recess was over.

Then he would have to earn it all over again the next time his class raced out to the play structure.

He was looking forward to it.

it is what it is

The holidays are coming. The holidays are coming.
Family and gifts and events and food and stress.
Don’t forget to bet who leaves dinner first fuming.
Don’t forget to wear your best suit or fancy dress.
That’s not festive music, that’s your blood drumming.
You’ve too many commitments, too many to impress.
The holidays are coming. The holidays are coming.
Aren’t you ever so very much excited?
I am. Can’t you tell? I’m positively beaming.
Or maybe that’s just a looming dread…