bow and arrows - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
I hardly notice the bow any longer, it's as if we have become one. There was a time I would never have ceded to carrying a weapon, yet love demands that you defend what you love, else what is it? What are we without it? I cannot fathom how the enemy feels, taking with cold and greedy cores, indifferent to our suffering as they build castles of gold and fertilise their trees with our bones.
A warrior must always have a core of love to be safe, to be one with mother nature and the spirits who guide us, otherwise why would she take sides? Why would she help? And so in my hands the wood of the bow is as one of my own fingers, the string as one of my own muscles and the arrows fly straight because my love is the same. I pray one day I may lay it down, to be at peace, and let my heart be all the weapon I need. Until then, this is how it is.
He speaks as he shoots, straight and on target, whether you're ready or not. He has a way with the truth and there's no point arguing because it defends itself. I'd love to argue back, show him where he's wrong but I can't. So I watch for a moment while he re-strings his bow, the deep wood flexing in the dawn. It takes just a moment, then he slings it behind him with the arrows, each as perfect as the last.
The arrow in my hands speaks to me with Papa's words, "Should killing ever be fun... stop. Leave it to another with deeper spiritual roots. Life is sacred, and without that we would be the monsters." The tip is newly sliver once more, the blood washed downstream. In my palms it is but a twig, yet with the bow it is quite deadly. I feel into my soul; search and find only a reverence for creation, for all animals and plants, and a soft regret that I had to kill. Yet it is necessary to keep healthy those I love and am a defender of... with a prayer for the departed we move on, solemn as we should be.
The bow was crafted of flexible, slender yew wood and wound around the grip was dyed red rawhide. On the quiver was carved the creatures who wore branches on their skulls, stampeding the horizon, pounding it into a grimace.
Inside the case, on a bed of crushed maroon velvet, lies a stunning black bow. "Oh," I whisper in admiration. I lift it carefully into the air to admire the exquisite balance, the elegant design, the curve of the limbs that somehow suggests the wings of a bird extended in flight.
I've played with a lot of the Capitol's weapons in training, but none designed for military combat. I focus my attention on a lethal looking bow so loaded down with scopes and gadgetry, I'm certain I can't lift it, let alone shoot it.
I walk to the archery station. Oh the weapons! I've been itching to get my hands on them for days! Bows made of wood and plastic and metal and materials I can't even name. Arrows with feathers cut in flawless uniform lines. I choose a bow, string it, and sling the matching quiver of arrows over my shoulder...Even as I pull back the bow I know something is wrong. The string's tighter than the one I use at home. The arrow's more rigid. I miss by a couple of inches and loose what little attention I had been commanding.