I have an urge tonight to shoot my bow; to send an arrow arcing through the empty sky to visit here and here and here along its flight. As it slows, descending back to meet the earth, its fletching spins the shaft in slower circling too, until it hits the ground and ends its soaring adventure with the moon.
This thought appears: How very like an arrow is the story arc. Smoothly navigating space in graceful form, yet turbulent in turning, spinning while it flies along, progressing from a point of anticipation in the aiming, fighting air yet honed with point and weight and fletch of certain size to carry it in perfect aerodynamic flight to meet its target. The planning, the pleasure in the reading of its progress, and satisfaction in conclusion are all there.
And arrows too, like stories, can be returned within their quivers to come out another time and fly again.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
I like. What fun it would be to be an arrow. With a flick of a switch we could go here and there. An applied listening device would be a given. There would be a time limit of coarse so you could get back to where the start began. Such fun to come here and drink in your words!