Rituals of the Unseen

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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…

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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…

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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.

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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…

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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…

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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…