The Archery Range – Part 1: Anchor Point

"Breathe out," said Imogen. "Then release. Not before."

"I'm breathing."

"You are holding your breath like a swimmer. Let it go. Everything with it."

Beth exhaled, shakily. The arrow flew from the bow with a thrum and thudded into the target at the far end of the clearing. It missed the gold by a hand's breadth.

"Better," said Imogen.

"It's terrible."

"It is closer."

The archery range lay in a glade of tall oaks in Sherwood Forest, with straw targets in a long row and the green light of leaves overhead. Birdsong. A soft breeze. The whole place smelled of cut grass and warm wood. Beth, thirty-seven, a corporate lawyer from Nottingham, had been sent by her therapist to find a hobby that did not involve screens. She had expected to hate it.

Imogen, thirty-four, the instructor, was tall and sinewy, with a long auburn plait, a leather arm guard and a voice like cool water. She stood beside Beth, adjusting her elbow with two quiet fingers. "Shoulders down. Better. Draw. Anchor at the corner of your mouth. Aim with both eyes. And breathe out."

Beth did. Her arrow went into the gold.

"There," said Imogen. "That's the one. Remember how it felt."

"Like nothing."

"Yes. The best shots always feel like nothing."

She came back every Saturday. She learned to read the wind, to steady her hands, to wait. She turned up on a Wednesday evening after a brutal week, and Imogen, packing up, glanced at her and said, "Stay. Shoot until it clears."

They shot until dusk. At the end, Beth lowered her bow and found Imogen watching her, not the target.

"Beth," said Imogen. "May I tell you something that is not about archery?"

"Please."

"I would like to kiss you. If you would like to be kissed."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Bullseye.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Bullseye.