the archer
in intermediate school i wrote my own creepypasta.
my self-insert with a bow and arrow made of shadows
was close personal friends with Slenderman, who helped her
take revenge on all who had ever wronged her.
in Minecraft, on my best friend’s server, i built
a cobblestone tower which i’d climb
at pixel sunset to shoot zombies and spiders across
the grassy plains; hear the ding when the arrow would hit.
my parents were indulgent of my most violent fantasies:
a pink and purple Nerf Rebelle crossbow for Christmas,
and a six-week after-school archery course for my birthday.
i hit the bullseye only twice the whole time.
once, i missed the target so badly that
when i found the arrow in the bushes
it was embedded in the dirt beside a sparrow, unmoving,
stunned but not dead. it flew off unscathed
but i was already crying at the thought of having killed it.
this was before i ceased to take seriously
my capacity to cause harm.
soon after we met, you stayed after close
to get changed in the work bathroom
for your best friend’s zodiac-themed birthday party.
you showed me the bow you made from a coathanger,
otherwise looking lumberjack-chic in the
flannel shirt that charmed me at the time.
i liked your arms in it, how strong they were,
how much taller you were, the sense that you
could break me, but wouldn’t. i dreamed about
some essential gentleness in your nature.
one afternoon, behind the counter,
i flipped through a book of horoscopes.
The Sagittarius, usually depicted as a centaur,
symbolises an exploratory spirit, with the ability
to aim true and hit the mark in pursuit of justice.
on holiday, you took great pride in tasting local delicacies,
adventurous meats like kangaroo and emu,
and i’d pretend to admire you for it.
at dinner, you could be relied upon to eat
the half of my plate that i wouldn’t finish.
really, your hunger did comfort me.
the week before we started dating,
i was drunk at Tom’s party, joking with Rei
about how huntable we both were,
how easy to chase down and kill.
i dashed across the garden, in my best attempt
at a baby deer’s bolt, giggling nervously
in the face of something large and fast and
erotically impossible to escape.
now, i imagine how i must have looked
when you told me it was over:
eyes gone glassy as if shot in the flank,
blood staining white-freckled fur,
all of me draining onto the forest floor, or …
no. a tawny pelt tyre-marked on the asphalt.
a product of no act so deliberate.
nothing so appetising about the flattened corpse.
Amelia Kirkness is a Pōneke-based writer, editor, and bookseller. Her work has been featured in publications like Starling, The Spinoff, bad apple, and a fine line. She is one of the editors of Symposia Magazine.