A Hunters Serenity

A short story i wrote based of a memory, the boy is walking along a archery track to practice his skills in hunting, each target he goes to is a 3D target made out of foam, it describes his journey.

The twang of the recurve sounded throughout the silent forest, a whistle as the arrow pierces through the air to its target, the boy watches, time slowing as he watches and realises his shot is off. The arrow makes an ugly smack as it pierces into the 3D boar made of foam, C zone, near the spine; the shot was off by a mile to the boy’s eyes.

The boy, 16 of age, was walking along the trail to the next target; his well-worn, favourite pair of dark blue sketcher sneakers were completely soaked. His socks, which were comfy and warm when he put them on, are drenched with water. The trail is nothing more than mud and water now, a miserable track for a miserable, cold, silent forest.

Recurve in hand the boy continues to drag his feet along the trail of mud. To the boy with his head turned down, it was like trudging through a metre of snow, one foot after the other, feet so cold, the wind a cold breeze, making the boy feel as if he was on a lonely, desolate mountain, cold, unfriendly, wind constantly howling at him, challenging him, daring him, to fight, to look up.

Finally, after what seems like an age, an age of his bones being frozen solid, only to thaw hundreds of years later, he arrived at the next target, this time it’s a giant foam 3D bear, positioned like its grazing on the ground, unaware of the danger that’s about to become of it, unaware of the boy with a bow able to kill such a bear like itself. Also unaware to the bear, was the boy’s long face, downturned to sadly and miserably, affected by the unforgiving wind, the saturated mud track.

Raising his recurve, he selects his best arrow, a wooden, turkey feathered arrow that was a gift from someone important, it has been with him for years and has never let him down. Sighting the target, the boy starts to estimate the distance from him to the bear, thirty-five metres, as if the wind was an audience at the grand stage, hushing to watch the finally, it dropped suddenly, watching, waiting, anticipating.  The boy drew back the string of his bow, arrow hooked onto the string ready to fly.

Recurve drawn back, arrow sighted, target still, the boy was about to shoot, unconcerned about the flight or the result, his fingers starting to let the string go as the coldness from the mountain finally creeps into him, consuming, stopping him, pushing him down.

But something stopped him; he held the string as a yellow leaf with an orange tint slowly drifts past his arrow tip on a whisper of wind.

The whisper reaches the boys ears, letting the tension down on his bow, he stands still to listen. The wind whispered many things to him, none of which he could understand. Looking to the clearing to his left the boy hopes to get a grasp of what the wind is trying to tell him. As he looks he notices the sun slowly breaking through the clouds above, shining rays of sunlight across the ground, causing dozens of tiny droplets of water to reflect, like beautiful Christmas lights to the boy.

The wind suddenly blew a strong gale, like the dozen’s of voices yelling to the actors on the grand stage, cheering them on. The tree’s shook violently, trying to uproot themselves, leaves blowing in the wind across the clearing.

Before the boys young eyes was a sight he will never forget, the clearing filled with dozens of small lights, the trees shaking, leaves in the air, the sun showing its ray’s to the world. All the cold was forgotten to the boy, the saturated shoes and socks were no longer on his mind, his last shot was erased along with the cold that was starting to grasp his body.

Turning to the target again the boy draws, head held high, confidence in his stance, a small smile plays across his lips as the forest turns back into the mountain, and the target turns into a giant polar bear, the wind still blowing strong, the leaves turning into snow, the shot is lined up, his finger's letting the arrow slip past. The deep thrum of his recurve as the arrow flies. The arrows flight, spinning and leaving no noise in its track. The smack of the arrow smashing into the target sounds through his body. The boy looks closely and realises he's hit the A Zone, a heart shot, a perfect shot. 

Author's Note

Be as harsh as you would like reviewers! First time so im sure there is millions of mistakes!