Daily story, March 16, 2025

Dead straight and faster than a diving hawk, the arrow cut through the air. It shouldn’t have. It was just a twig, unshaved, unstraightened, unfletched. The bow it flew from was a short branch strung with old yarn. But their wind was kind, and even the turn of the Earth seemed to wish the quarrel to its mark. The wish came true, and the man fell, howling. He clutched between his legs. The ground ran purple with dropped squash.