There are mornings when the world feels like a screen that forgot to sleep—flickering, expectant, always asking. In such light, where every silence must be earned and every stillness risks interruption, the soul reaches for older shapes. Not solutions. Not…...
Portlaoise carries its soul just beneath the hedgerows, where boots sink slightly and tree roots knot like old thoughts. And tucked within that pulse, in Clonkeen Woods – where the canopy breaks into mottled shadow and the light stammers across…
The essay that follows—perhaps a touch long for an online piece—is, in truth, a chapter from The Arrow Knows No Master, a book I’ve been quietly shaping since February of last year. It’s composed of individual essays—mostly reflective, occasionally philosophical—on…
I came across him not in a book, but in a footnote misquoted in the margin of another. It was a binding so cracked it seemed to wheeze when opened, part of a bundle I’d been lent by a Flemish…...
As the fictious, famed Chaos Theorist and open shirt enthusiast, Dr Ian Malcom, once said, “Hang on, this is going to be bad.” 3D Archery is not like Field Archery, and very far removed from Target Archery. Each of the…
Aeker Murdock had been invited to a major archery event held in the Kingdom of Xellcarr. As the archery guild’s Master of Crows, he was often called upon to guest inspect private, or national, competitions. His title, a hangover from…
Making Wooden Arrows – A Master’s Guide By John Potter 2020 Edition/90 pages I believe the making of wooden arrows, and their pairing to the archer and the bow as one of the truest skills in archery. And sadly, one…
The story I’m about to tell you is not one that fits neatly into the grand histories of kings and battles, nor does it appear in the sweeping narratives of medieval glory or tragedy. It is a whisper at the…...
The beginning of a war, the arrows of one nation against the griffin worshiping ideology of another nation.
Following on from the prologue published last month, Evander Penrose must endure against the surrealist nature of this conflict and build a defence to repel vast odds.
They go blind, not suddenly, not dramatically, but like stone crumbling beneath ivy. A slow erosion hidden under the costume of stillness. Archers — who speak so often of form and silence, of the sacred breath before release — rarely…...
Hello Crackers, are you well? The year seems to be flying along briskly, leaving me more unorganised than usual, but here I am, straining the brain to write some words down to entertain. Easter is fast approaching also, so first…...
There’s a kind of hush in the troughlands of Fiorbhia Farm when the dew clings still to the grass, before the sun decides if it’ll bake or bless the day. And there I stood, half a ghost, half a child…...
Animosity between Tevaller and Chanjion began when a Tevaller King had a vision of a serpent people putting nations in chains, believed to be the Chanjion. The Tevaller began occupying Chanjion land thereafter. Chanjion had no army, and at the…
There are films that do not begin with a title screen. They begin with a feeling. A quietness. A scent. A strange shift in the weight of the moment that tells you—you’re no longer here. You’ve crossed into somewhere else.…...
Japanese Archery By Aleksander Wat (in Marcin Malek poetical interpretation) 1The hand to the bowstring speaks:Bend to me, yield.The bowstring to the hand replies:Strike bold, be steeled.The bowstring whispers to the shaft:O arrow, flee!The arrow to the bowstring calls:Unshackle me!The…
Precision has long been the archer’s silent companion, lingering in the spaces between breath and release. The draw is steady, the fingers poised on the string, the arrow ready to carve its path through the air. And yet, as much…...
There is a moment before the shot, when the world folds into silence, taut as the string between limb and nock. It is not hesitation. It is not doubt. It is the brief, unbearable stillness before intent becomes action, before…...
There are places where history does not settle, where time folds in on itself, leaving wounds that never scar over. Korea is such a place. A land split not by nature, nor by the will of its people, but by…
The world I grew up in was not built for dreaming. It was a place of long queues and short tempers, where the winters stretched on like unfinished sentences, and the summers were brief, almost apologetic interruptions of heat and…
I don’t remember when exactly. Could’ve been Lyon. Or Toulouse. Maybe Montpellier. It hardly matters now, except for the sound of rain. A persistent, whispering sort, seeping into the bones of an evening too worn to protest. I had been…