Sky Arrows

It was the kind of summer day that makes your skin glow, and your imagination stretch just a little further. The valley where we lived—tucked at the top of a hill on the north side of a wide, humming boulevard—felt like the edge of the world. And just across that boulevard? Freedom. A vast patchwork of open fields, golden hills rolling endlessly toward the ocean, kissed by the wind and waiting for adventure.

That afternoon, my older brother and I, along with a ragtag group of five friends, gathered with our bows and arrows in hand. We weren’t warriors or hunters, though we liked to think we were. We were just kids with scuffed knees, sunburned necks, and big dreams. We’d told our parents we were going jackrabbit hunting. We didn’t find a single one, of course—not that we really expected to.

Instead, we stood there in a loose circle under the big blue sky, arrows dangling loosely in our hands, looking around like something might suddenly hop out of a bush and give us a reason to pull back our bows. After a while, I got an idea.

"Let’s shoot the arrows straight up," I said, grinning like I'd just invented fun itself.

Seven faces lit up with that mix of thrill and reckless approval only kids can manage. “Yeah!” someone said. And that was that.

We drew our bows, aimed at the sky like little archers saluting the sun, and let them fly. Arrows soared upward in a beautiful, silent arc, slicing the air like whispers. And then… we waited.

There was a moment of perfect stillness, like the world was holding its breath. Then—thump. About twenty feet away. Thump. Thump thump. Arrows rained down, harmless and dramatic, like nature herself had joined our game.

We laughed and whooped. The thrill of it, the danger without danger—it was magic.

But me, being the ever-curious strategist, had another idea. “Let’s try again,” I said. “This time, aim a little west, like... fifteen degrees or so.”

Everyone shrugged, why not? We lined up again, slightly off from our first position, and launched a second volley into the sky.

This time, as the arrows disappeared into the sunglow, a slow realization crept over us.

We’d aimed them where we were standing.

“RUN!” someone shouted, and suddenly seven kids scattered like startled deer, sprinting in all directions. And just as we cleared the spot—thump thump thump! Arrows stabbed the ground in a perfect circle where we’d been moments before.

We doubled over laughing. Breathless. Wild. It was hilarious. It was perfect.

We didn’t shoot a third round. Not because we were scared—no, we’d proved our point—but because some moments are best left at their peak.

That afternoon lives in my mind like a photograph, sunlight and laughter burned into the frame. And every time I pass that old boulevard, I swear I can still hear the thump of arrows falling in the tall grass, and the sound of us laughing like we had the whole world figured out.