Spark

2

“I’ll hand it to you, I didn’t think that shit actually worked.” I took another bite of overcooked dining hall chicken while Collin swallowed his latest bite of flimsy hamburger. The campus food had never been anything remarkable, but it was palatable and sometimes pretty good. Especially if you had the years of experience to know where to look, and when. On Wednesdays like these, the best food was on the opposite side of campus from the archery field, so Collin and I had to make a break for it after practice before every seat got taken.

“I swear to god, you are descended from Robin Hood. I looked back at Coach Shitbore after your third perfect end in a row, and I’m eighty percent certain his jaw dislocated in shock!”

I let that image sit in my head for a second, snickered to myself quietly, and went back to my dinner. After that first bullseye, I didn’t shoot a single end lower than fifty-seven for another hour until the end of practice. It could’ve been Collin’s advice, the pressure Coach put on me, or even the poorly timed sneeze, but it felt like some switch got flipped, and all my skills came back. Sixty point ends suddenly felt effortless.

It was almost unsettling.

Collin spoke over the dull roar in the dining hall. “Bro, are you gonna eat the chicken, or turn it to stone with your eyes? It’s pretty tough already.”

I shook my head clear for a moment, before I carved off another piece of dry poultry and stuck it between my teeth. At least my jaw is getting some exercise.

“By the way, how were introductory lectures? Any profs that seem like assholes?”

I swallowed. “Didn’t go to any.”

Collin slammed his palm into his forehead, letting loose an exasperated sigh. “I thought I talked to you about this!”

“You talked at me about it, while I was practicing. Not a single word was processed.”

He dragged his hand down his face. “How many times do I have to say ‘Just ‘cause you’re here on a full ride doesn’t mean you can slack off!’ before it sinks in?”

I pressed my fingertips to my sternum in mock incredulity. “I’m offended! I don’t slack, my GPA is 2.4, I’ll have you know!”

“Just enough that you’re still allowed on a varsity team, right?”

“Yup.” I took another bite, and mixed it with a drink of water from my glass, hoping it would loosen up the rock in my mouth. It didn’t.

He sighed again. “How did a bum like you become my roommate?”

Collin Brightwen: Physics major, my roommate for the entirety of college, and an absolute academic overachiever. Valedictorian of his high school graduating class, score of 1540 on the SATs, and a 3.8 GPA, he’s made Dean’s List every semester since freshman year. He could’ve gone to any Ivy League school he wanted, and yet he decided on a public university in the asscrack of Massachusetts. All so that his plethora of academic scholarships would amount to a full ride, and he could graduate without owing an arm and a leg. He could probably land an internship at NASA, but he’s only been spending his summers interning at smaller labs.

I shrugged. “Everything balances out I suppose.”

Collin shook his head. “And it’s not like you give a flying fuck about your major.”

“Do I look like a ‘Business’ guy to you?”

His dark brown eyes suddenly grew stern. Oh great, looks like I am getting a lecture today. “Aiden, I’ve known you for three years, and you still don’t seem like an “anything” guy to me. It’s getting concerning.” He dropped his burger on his plate and started talking with his hands, visibly exasperated. “I mean, what do you plan to do after this year? Where are you gonna go?”

I flattened my tone. “I’ve told you, I’m gonna do something, somewhere. It’s impossible for me to do nothing, nowhere. You’re smart, you should know that.”

“Aiden, it worries me that you’re this nonchalant about your own life. Not to mention you’re still a total black box to me. I don’t even know your favorite color!”

My turn to sigh. “Dude, do you remember the reason I gave when I said we should stay roommates?”

Collin rolled his eyes. “I don’t pry.”

“Right, so do me a solid and don’t prove me wrong.” I gnawed at the last bite of my food for a second before continuing. “Besides, it’s a waste of energy worrying about someone you’re never gonna see again after college. You’ll be off, putting satellites in space while I’ll be–”

“–doing something, somewhere?”

“Precisely.” I stacked my fork and knife on my plate, and was about to head for the dish return, when Collin made a suggestion. “What about the Olympics?”

I scoffed. “What about them?”

“You could always try to join USAT. I think you have the potential.”

“Never happening.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not good enough. End of.”

Collin looked at me like I had two heads. He took a deep breath, collected himself, then in a very restrained tone, explained, “Let me lay this out. You’ve never gone to a single party ever since you started here, you only ever go to class when attendance is mandatory, only a handful of people have ever heard you speak, and I’m certain that you’re using all that extra time to do nothing but practice. If your end goal isn’t professional athletics, then what was it all for?”

I hesitated for a moment, thinking of a good answer. Two very long seconds passed before I said, “Myself, honestly. I just…feel better with a bow in my hands.” That was mostly the truth. Archery was usually fun, and yet, I couldn’t help feeling like something was off ever since practice earlier today. I liked hitting bullseyes, I liked scoring high, but they weren’t the reason I loosed my bow. There was some disconnect, and I wanted to figure it out.

I finally looked out the window near mine and Collin’s two-seat table against the wall, and saw the fiery sky of sunset. I checked my phone: eight o’clock. Just the diversion I needed.

“Hey Collin, don’t you have an assignment due at midnight?”

“Oh shit, that’s right!” He hastily gathered his dishes and stood up from his seat. Before he made a beeline for the dish return, however, he stopped and looked back at me. “At least consider it, would you? You could do it if you tried.”

“Already have, already know it’s not happening.”

His irritation was getting obvious. “I swear man, one of these days you’re going to meet someone you can’t just brush off, and when that day comes, you’re gonna have no idea what to do.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I…swept him off, “Those forces aren’t gonna measure themselves. Just leave the door unlocked, I might be back late.”

“You’re always back late.” He grumbled to himself as he made off for the exit. I watched him go, making sure he was out of sight before heading up myself.

Once I stepped outside into the humid, late summer evening air, I set a course straight for the archery field. Time to find out what’s going on.

✦

The campus pathways and sidewalks were pleasantly still as I strolled back the way I came from the field. Much to Collin’s chagrin, I liked to enjoy a late-night walk every now and then, when the entire world seemed stuck in place and there wasn’t a sound. The empty footpaths and abandoned, wide open spaces gave the entire school an aura of liminality that couldn’t be beat. Perfect for clearing my head. With no destination in mind, I’d pick a random direction and just walk until my legs got tired. Then I’d head back to my room, and collapse in bed around four A.M. or so. Another upside was that I now knew the University of Sheffield like the back of my hand.

This time, however, I walked with purpose. Cutting through the common, where some smattered groups of students still lingered, I passed the Student Union and hung a right at the library. At my current pace, it took all of twenty minutes to arrive just outside the field, where a chain link fence twice my height separated it from the rest of the campus.

I glanced left and right to make sure nobody was watching, before I slipped all six feet and two inches of myself over to the gate as quietly as I could. That is to say, not very. Thankfully, nobody was ever around this field past practice hours, not even the other team members. I didn’t blame them. I also didn’t want to think about Coach Whitmore any more than was necessary.

The gate was still unlocked, like usual, the padlock hanging from the latch. Coach was as careless as always. Just as I lifted the latch and pushed the old, squeaky gate inwards, I looked back up at the sky. Daylight was fading fast, the sun retreating further below the horizon as the army of night continued its advance. Turning on the field lights would draw far too much attention. The meager time I had to figure things out was slipping away.

I broke onto the field in a sprint. Made of real, regularly trimmed grass, the field was about 120 meters long, and about thirty meters wide. Thirty meters from the back of the field, a white line was painted across its width, creating the firing line where the archers stood. From there, lines were painted at the twenty, thirty, fifty, seventy, and ninety meter distances, where the targets were placed. Unfortunately for me, everything was broken back down after practice. I had to rush for the supply shed on the far corner of the field.

The rickety old wooden shed was where the team housed all its equipment, including every bow and every field-point used in both practice and competitions, haphazardly gathered in two plastic trash bins. At least there were hooks for all the bow carriers.

I threw open the cracked, eroded wooden door, and frantically gathered my equipment. I lifted my bow bag off its hook, grabbed six arrows from the bin right beside the entrance, and stepped inside toward the back shelf to claim a quiver. Just as I clipped the carabiner on my belt loop, my eyes were drawn to a picture hung on the far wall.

I lingered for a moment longer and examined the image. It was the picture taken of everyone after the team won regionals last year. Ten players in total, including myself, with the five tallest standing in back, while the other five kneeled in front. Everyone held their bow at their side while Coach Whitmore presented the trophy to the camera like it was his newborn son. As far as I knew, he still had it locked up in his office, far away from where any of us could touch it.

I locked my gaze on myself, standing at the leftmost end of the line in back. I scoffed as I reaffirmed just how unphotogenic I was. Shaggy, dull brown hair flopped straight to my shoulders, like it was desperate to escape my scalp. I was tall, yet only 160 pounds soaking wet. Compared to the more athletic archers, I looked like a stiff breeze could snap me in half. I remember doing my best to smile when the picture was being taken, but it was easy to see in my dead gray eyes that I would rather be inside an active volcano.

A sliver of mortification took root as I realized that the miniscule hair styling I did that morning left the birthmark on the top right corner of my forehead partially exposed. I learned somewhere that it was shaped exactly like a certain celtic knot, called a triquetra. That would’ve been cool, if it hadn’t been exactly what cruel middle schoolers needed to latch onto me in the past.

Directly to the right of me was my stark contrast. Collin smiled with all his teeth, pride radiated from him. Just from a photo, you could tell he took care of himself. He was hale and hearty, with his jet black locks tied in a small top knot to keep it out of his way, with his arm slung around the shoulders of whoever was next to him. What was his name again? Evan…Ethan…?

Didn’t matter right now. I snapped out of my reminiscing and focused on the present. It wasn’t until I loaded my quiver and stepped out of the shed that I realized I’d wasted too much time.

The pall of night had completely enveloped the sky. Darkness, blank as an empty canvas thanks to the wonders of light pollution, spread in every direction. Not even the moon was shining. The nearest street lamp was at least 80 meters away, so from where I stood at the back of the field, I could just barely make out the firing line.

Well, fuck.

I pivoted on my heels and took a few forceful steps back to the shed, when a helpful idea presented itself.

If something weird really is going on, this would only help to prove it.

I stopped in my tracks, looked back at the oppressive darkness, and took a deep breath. I bargained with myself. I’ll just set up a target, loose one arrow, it’ll veer off into nowhere, and then I’m done.

With that, I started setting up the experiment. Having a STEM major roommate didn’t teach me much, but it did teach me that a cornerstone of science is reproducibility. If I could get the same results from this evening while practically blind, then something was wrong.

Every target was still placed on its stand, in a row against the fence adjacent to the storage shed. I dropped my bow bag at the firing line, in the same place I stood during practice, and grabbed the nearest one from behind. Moving a target was typically a two-person job, but one person could get it done if they were patient enough. I rotated the stand on its legs and tilted it back, bracing the structure with my whole body, before dragging it downfield to the seventy meter line, stopping every twenty meters or so for a breather. It occurred to me that even if I hadn’t started daydreaming, the sun would’ve still died by the time I got everything in position.

Panting as I set the target down in its final place, I walked a straight line back to ensure it was in the right spot. Eventually I was right on top of my equipment, telling me no adjustments were needed.

I unzipped the bag and removed my laminated wood recurve bow, along with its string. I took my time double checking everything, making sure the loops in the string were tight and lubricated. It was only a month old, so there was no way it could be fraying already, but it was my routine to check. After everything looked solid, I removed my stringer from the bag, looped an end onto each limb, and stepped on the center, bending the limbs enough that I could get each end of the string on without much issue. A forty-five pound draw wasn’t that hard for me to hand string, but I’d used my stringer when practice started, and I was being meticulous.

I slipped my three-fingered glove on my right hand, and my pinky finger glove on my left. Directly below I buckled on my arm guard. I squared my feet, and stared into the pitch where the target should be. Everything was in place.

I drew and nocked my first arrow, going through the exact motions as when I hit the day’s first bullseye. Just as I anchored my draw, I repeated one phrase in my head.

I want it. I want it. I want it.

An unexpected warmth passed over my hands as I released the string, as if a hot wind blew over out of nowhere. I saw the projectile fly for a split second before disappearing from view, followed immediately by the familiar thok of an arrow striking straw boss. My ears perked up and my eyes widened in disbelief.

I yanked my phone out of my pocket and frantically turned on the flashlight, raising it to maximum output. There was just barely enough light that I could make out the circle of the target in a hazy outline, and the fletching of my arrow.

Only one thought raced through my head as my jaw gaped at the sight of a dead-center shot. How!?

With a shaking breath, I rationalized. It’s just a fluke. It won’t happen twice.

I stored my phone, flashlight still on, and readied my next field-point. Same process, same unexpected heat, same sound. I shined my light downrange once again.

Take a wild guess what happened twice.

The two arrows were practically fighting for the centermost position on the target, the second one a hair away from spearing the first.

By now, I was on the brink of panic. I started to intentionally sabotage my shots. It felt incredibly strange. I was firing with a desire to hit the bullseye, and yet simultaneously begging that, for the sake of my sanity, that wish wouldn’t come true.

My third arrow rested on the same side as my draw hand, which in any sane world would mean it would fishtail off to my right mid-flight. This was a rookie mistake most people made the first time they picked up a bow, and it would always lose points at the minimum, if not cause you to miss entirely. And yet, the arrow stuck to its course better than any helmsman could dream, and joined the territory dispute in the bullseye.

Fear was quickly mutating into frustration. Frustration that I still didn’t know what was happening. That it was continuing to happen despite my best efforts. As I prepped my fourth shot, I did everything wrong that I knew. I rested the arrow on the wrong side, dropped my left elbow, underdrew my string, and torqued my right hand as much as possible as soon as I released. For a moment I was grateful I had the field all to myself, since a shot that uncontrolled could go absolutely anywhere. However, at this point, there was a nagging feeling that wouldn’t be a concern.

Sure enough, there was a fourth challenger for “most accurate shot this evening” once I passed my phone light over the target.

That inexplicable heat had been spreading as well. Both my hands and upper arms felt like they’d been dunked in hot water. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but not exactly pleasant.

I was barely paying attention to that, though. I was too busy being completely done with this bullshit.

I spun on my heels and fixed my stance, facing exactly opposite from the target. I stacked each and every mistake on top of each other once more, and whispered to myself, “I swear to God, if this fucking works…”

Still, I kept reciting those same words in my mind. I want it. I want it. I want it.

I loosed my fifth arrow with all the expertise of a drunk newbie, waiting for it to crash into the fence.

Then stood petrified as it stalled midair, spun on a dime, and rocketed back at me.

I barely ducked in time to avoid getting punctured by my own implement, as I heard that same taunting thok behind me.

I didn’t even use my flashlight this time. I already knew where it hit.

My breathing grew frantic as I sat in the dirt, trying and failing to make heads or tails of what I just saw. Am I losing my mind? Is this some elaborate prank? Are there magnets set up underground or something? I knew deep down that couldn’t work, but I would believe anything if it meant my worldview could stay intact.

The nagging heat had turned into a feverish burning. In the course of my last shot, it spread all the way up my arms to my shoulders, neck, and terminated at my forehead. I looked myself all over, but my skin was still as pale white as when I started. I’ve never been in a sauna, but I imagined in that moment, staying in one too long must feel something like this.

But, the enduring blaze gave me an epiphany. What if this had nothing to do with the bow, or the arrows? The field or the target? Finally I considered: What if I’m doing this?

I stood back up, and dropped my bow to the ground.

I faced downrange again, drew my last arrow, and gripped it by the shaft. I raised my fist, and held it next to my ear like a javelin. The fire across my skin burned even hotter. I could feel myself sweating buckets, like I just ran a marathon in ninety degree weather. I needed to stop soon, or I’d get cooked alive.

I want it.

I drew my arm back. Even my eyes felt like they were boiling.

I want it!

I stepped forward, transferring every ounce of momentum I could gather into my hand. My head felt like it would explode.

I WANT IT!

With a yell of effort and pain, I hurled the arrow with everything I had left. As soon as it was airborne, I was blown onto my ass as it exploded forward, punching me in the face with the backdraft. I could barely see it spear through both the entire straw boss target, and another arrow, which it completely halved lengthwise.

Wait a second…I could see the target? No, not just that. I could see the whole field. As clearly as if it were noon. But that would mean…

I looked up.

And nearly fainted.

Stars. A never ending sea of bright white dots stretched from one horizon to the other, a cloudy band of luminous, cosmic dust breaking it down the middle. It rose like a column, holding something too big to even fathom in place. It was absolutely breathtaking.

And inconceivably horrifying.

Something in me snapped, and I began to laugh. For what could’ve been two minutes or a whole hour, I rolled in the grass, consumed by hysterics. Nothing made sense anymore, and for some reason, nothing in my life had ever been more hilarious. Fortunately, the brain is a very adaptable organ. I settled down eventually.

There, crouched in what should’ve been pure darkness, under what should’ve been a blank sky, I whispered to myself.

“What the fuck is happening to me?”