​B R O K E N

A long time ago on a shooting range quite different from this one, there was a set of arrows. Arrows huddled in their good enough holster. Living a good enough life. Then there was one arrow who peaked from the holster and saw a world beyond. Targets. The arrow saw targets of opportunity surrounding it. It tried to hit those targets, but the arrow was too dull. The other arrows in the set tried to slow his growth, but the arrow grew sharper still. More persistent. One day, the arrow became strong and hit its targets with ease. The set was filled with unrest. They attempted to hinder it. To push the targets aside and allow the arrow to return to its good enough holster. The arrow grew silent. Unrest continued until the set hindered the aspiring arrow. The arrow could not say how or why it acted as it did. Perhaps the arrow only sought freedom. Perhaps it sought to differ from the set and the rocks which watched the sky. The arrow broke. The set became filled with sadness and left their holster. The world was large now. Rocks laid here. Those rocks sat half buried in the dirt. Slowly turning upside down. But the arrows grew stronger. The arrows from the set molded and pounded themselves into the right shapes and sizes that they individually saw fit. All was good and the arrows hit their targets. Arrows could fly. However, one arrow strayed from it’s course. It saw faults in the arrows’ designs. And so it molded itself bigger and shot itself higher. This arrow shot the wings off the others. Arrows rained down. Arrows laid buried in the ground. The arrow broke them and molded them into shapes he saw fit. To sizes smaller than his own. The arrows were given chains. The arrows no longer flew. The arrows rained down and dragged. Dragged behind the arrow. The chains were strong and stretched far over the shooting range. Despite this, the broken arrows cheered, “We are free! Look how we fly so close to the ground!” The rocks saw the arrows from a different angle. The rocks tried to help them and began to cut and scrape at the dragging chains. Then a fog came. The arrow lost its path. Now that shooting range is long gone. Replaced with ranges littered with rocks facing downwards. Rocks who dared to look up were molded into broken arrows. Other rocks broke themselves while watching the arrows drag. Some arrows were torn free. Those arrows lay in the dirt. They are arrows no more. They are sticks with a sharp end. They see that now.