a whisper in the dark

You think you understand violence. You think you’ve seen it, measured it, weighed it in your hands like something you could master, something that bends to the will of the wielder. You think a weapon is just a tool. But…
You think you understand violence. You think you’ve seen it, measured it, weighed it in your hands like something you could master, something that bends to the will of the wielder. You think a weapon is just a tool. But…
I first stumbled upon Irish Celtic mythology when I was a lad of fourteen, a scrawny thing with a wild imagination and a stubborn curiosity for the unknown. It was my older sister who planted the seed, gifting me a…...
The trade was small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. A childhood barter, some scrap of possession given away for something else, though the details are long since swallowed by the tides of memory. I don’t remember what I…
“The king, his heart resolute, called upon his knights, ‘Where is my son, Charles?’ They replied, ‘Sire, we know not; we believe he fights on.’ Then he declared, ‘Loyal companions, lead me into the fray, that I may strike but…...
The wind shifted. That peculiar scent of damp earth, wood smoke, and the first stirrings of green rising from winter’s quiet breath. The hedgerows outside my window whispered of coming rain, the kind that soaks slow and steady, not in…...
The story arrived as many others do, cloaked in the smoky haze of memory and the eccentric cadence of a teller who half-believes the story they’re telling. Dim, my father’s driver, was the one who first mentioned Hachiman. I could…...
Good day, Nick, and welcome to our new interview series, The Archer’s Mark, which will be published every month in print and online. First off, thanks for taking the time to chat. I have to admit, once I got started…...
IFAF Indoor National championship 2025 Saturday morning, and the gods had decided to be kind. No rain, no howling winds, just an uncharacteristically mild February air settling over Waterford like a held breath. Eight degrees Celsius, but let’s leave Anders…
A bow is born long before the first curl of wood makes its way to the ground before the rasp makes the first bite into the grain or the sinew begins to hum against the frame that is slowly taking shape.…
“The bow whispers to the archer: trust the wind, trust the arrow, trust yourself.” There’s a certain quiet to the past, a hush that lingers in old things—tools, stories, hands that remember what the world once was. Some things don’t…
A film review of frontier brutality, archery, and the quiet horror of survival. There’s something primal about the way American Primeval treats archery—something that strips it of romance, of the quiet elegance we might have once attributed to it in…
There’s a curious thing about homecomings. They aren’t quite what we imagine them to be, are they? A man sets out, faces the tempests of the world, and dreams of the day he will step across the threshold of home,…
Aiming for Connection Archery isn’t just a sport or a skill—it’s an invitation to step into a world that challenges and rewards in equal measure. It prompts precision, patience, and self-awareness, and it always gives something more in return. Whether you…
My first bow was a Diana longbow made by a Polish company called Lukbis. It was a wonder that felt as light as air, built to simplicity and beauty, and at a draw weight of 38lb, felt in your hand more like a toy than a weapon. Not only was this bow my first foray into archery; it was the foundation of my bow-wielding journey, one that taught me a great deal about form, technique, and the kind of unfathomable, silent connection that exists between archer and arrow.
Like so many newbies, I started shooting wooden arrows with plastic nocks, a sensible combination ideal for mastering the fundamentals. However, as my interest grew, I began seeking alternatives, motivated by a commitment to embrace the old-school craftsmanship of the sport.
The Archer’s Compass, Part I Sophocles’ Philoctetes is such a tale. A story, not of victory, but of exile. Picture him there on that rocky isle of Lemnos, its crags jutting up like broken teeth from the indifferent sea. The…...
Eugen Herrigel. The name doesn’t stride confidently through history’s corridors. It lingers instead in its dimly lit corners, somewhere between the poetry of a fleeting idea and the stern weight of unyielding reality. You won’t find him leading armies or…...
The sacred cow of archery technique—the release. Countless books, videos, and coaching seminars have exalted the act of letting the string slip from the fingers as the moment of transcendent perfection, the alpha and omega of a good shot. But…...
This year’s festival, now in its third edition, promises something very different from all its precedents. It will be a celebration not only of the discipline of archery but also of its growing reach and resonance in Irish communities. Perhaps…