tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43138878181913285802024-03-12T18:19:32.893-07:00Lo Roden BogenTimothy J. Tolerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04956534989280058816noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313887818191328580.post-44838000262337032772012-02-28T11:20:00.000-08:002012-02-28T11:20:33.452-08:00Hello RedditorsThe third chapter is in <i>Later Posts.</i> Enjoy, or don't, I doubt too many will read it anyway. Thanks for those that do,<br />
XyzornatTimothy J. Tolerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04956534989280058816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313887818191328580.post-91401140655673629482011-04-20T16:30:00.000-07:002011-04-24T09:05:53.132-07:00Lo Roden Bogen by Timothy J. Toler Ch. 1<div align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Neverwinter;"><span style="font-size: 49pt;">Chapter One</span></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Neverwinter;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Trenton McClelland's Story: Part One</span></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> <span style="font-size: large;">P</span><span style="font-size: large;">resentiment presented itself to</span></b><span style="font-family: Fantastic MF; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Trenton<span style="font-family: Fantastic MF;"> </span>McClelland as he woke up that morning. He had again been dreaming of Happy Valley, just a few miles in from Tumalo Falls. This was the fifth consecutive night walking over the little wooden bridge that, apparently during months of snow melt, would span over a tiny run-off stream. Now there lay only a dry creek bed. Up the trail about five hundred yards, he could see the bridge that crosses the actual Tumalo Creek. </b></span></span></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> In the dream from which he had just risen, as in the five nights prior, the meadow opened up to the left, just behind the thin tree line. This stage revealed a man standing in the middle of the clearing. He was wearing the same robe that he had worn the past five nights. It had reminded Trenton of a friar's outfit, like those he had seen in Shakespearean plays and movies. The man had his hood down, though the way the light danced through the early morning scene, along with the heavy presence of a misty fog layered upwards from the ground, there was no point in time Trenton was able to see the man's face.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> As he sat up in bed and began to stretch, he couldn't help replaying the final moments that transpired this time around. He had no idea why the dream had altered so suddenly from it's previous routine. As he stood up, he instantly recognized that he had done so too quickly. He was overcome with a wave of dizziness and the room dissolved into a blinding white light. What seemed like an hour, but was truly only moments later, his bedroom came into focus. At first everything was blurry. A blast of sound crashed into the room. Trenton was having trouble figuring out what the cacophany was because, as he was trying to regain his senses, all of the noise filtering into him sounded distant and tinny. He was certain that someone had driven their car into his living room, but as the sound did not cease, he turned around to see his alarm clock come into focus. With his bearings mostly returned, Trenton stood up, slowly this time, and limped his way over to his desk. After resetting the alarm clock, he opened up his journal and wrote about the mysterious new ending.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> <span style="font-family: Treefrog;">Saturday, September 12</span><sup><span style="font-family: Treefrog;">th</span></sup><span style="font-family: Treefrog;">, 2010. I had the same dream again last night, but this time I was able to move in closer to him. Though I still have not seen his face, I am certain of what I heard him say. This is the first occasion that he has spoken to me and I am still having a time trying to figure out what it was that he meant. He clearly said, “Begin.” He then raised his right arm and pointed to the southwest. At this time, he and the fog disappeared. This is when the dream had ended each night before. For the first time, however, I was able to run to his position. When I looked to the southwest, from his vantage point I could see...something. This is when I awoke. Whatever it was I saw, I knew I had to go. I'll head out there next week, once this tournament's over with.</span></b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Placing the cap back on his pen, he closed the blue, spiral bound notebook. Trenton was now sufficiently awake, after the abrupt start to the day. He stood up from his desk and walked over to the bathroom door, where he started running the shower and brushing his teeth. After he bent down to spit out the toothpaste into the sink, he repositioned himself in front of the mirror and did not see his reflection. Instead, it was that of the old man from his dream. He was now clearly seeing the face of a bald old man with weathered features and ancient green eyes with yellowing whites. He had deeply tanned skin and his lips were badly cracked and dry.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton let out a startled grunt and threw his toothbrush at the mirror as he stumbled backwards, only to trip over the rug and topple. The man just smiled. Trenton shot to his feet, prepared to run out of the bathroom. His elbows were throbbing as they were the first part of him to hit the floor. As he looked again to the mirror, all he saw were his own green eyes looking back with a most terrified expression behind them. Trenton reached over to the light switch and flipped it three times, off, then on again. After he was confident that the light in the room had indeed fluctuated with his flicking, he stepped into the shower. </b></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The old man's face was burnt into Trenton's mind, and it was all he could think of the rest of the morning. He put no effort into breakfast, instead opting for his usual straight black coffee, and stepped out onto the front porch of his home. The paper was sitting on the bottom step leading up to the front door, but Trenton didn't feel like making the effort to climb down the four other steps to reach it. He just sat down in the lawn chair closest to the door. Trenton set his coffee on the table and reached into the cup holder. There, he found his lighter, and a half-smoked, full flavor American Spirit. He lit the cigarette, and replaced the lighter to the cup holder. As he exhaled the first drag, he picked up his coffee. </b></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> For the next ten minutes, he was able to stop thinking all together. No recurring dream. No old man in robes or reflection. Just smoke and coffee. Finally, he drained the last swig, inhaled the last of the smoke, grabbed the paper and headed inside. “I don't even know why I got this damn thing in the first place,” Trenton said to himself as he dumped it straight into the paper recycle bin.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> He rinsed the coffee mug and set it into the dishwasher. With just Trenton living there, the machine won't get used for three more days. He walked back to his bedroom through the kitchen, so as to avoid the hallway mirror, and threw on a t-shirt that he purchased from some weird, blonde guy under an umbrella in Drake Park. The shirt said “TRY AS YOU MIGHT, I WILL KEEP MY GROUND.” He was able to appreciate the sentiment, and so he bought it. But that was ages ago. Now, he doesn't notice that it's the shirt he had chosen. He took off his cotton pajama pants and replaced them with a pair of red and white sweat pants. Hanging from a hook on the door was his plain, gray, pull over hooded sweatshirt. He threw it on over his head. Trenton then grabbed his pack of cigarettes off the night stand and put them in his sweatshirt pocket. He knew he needed to stop at the store on the way to work, because there were only two left in the box. He turned to his dresser and collected his wallet and keys. There was one for the house, one for the bike lock, and one for his 1997 green Jeep Wrangler. Trenton headed for the front door, and in the hallway, gave one last look in the mirror, and was relieved to see only himself looking back.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> He locked the door and walked over to his bike, where he unlocked the chain from the make shift bike rack that he had bolted into the side of his house, the day he turned ten. His bike was a custom fit Gary Fischer Joshua “Y” frame. Trenton had Bomber fork shocks installed on the front, and a Fox Vanilla rear coil suspension added to the back. He had a nice long ride to work and it was ice cold out, the sun only just rising. The last thing he would want is a hard, bumpy ride as well. He lived on the very south end of Bend, OR, in Deschutes River Woods, and he had to be at Shevlin Park by nine. Normally, he left his house every morning around ten after eight, so he could make it to work on time. Today he was on his bike by half past seven. </b></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton rode his bike down Baker until he reached Brookswood Blvd. He made the turn onto Brookswood, and followed it for fifteen minutes down to the Old Mill District. When he got to the round-about at Reed Market Rd, he took it all the way around, with the cars in traffic, to the final exiting point headed west. Reed Market took him past the Old Mill, over the Deschutes River, and past several more businesses and round-abouts. He went through the round-about at the beginning of the Cascade Lakes Hwy, and continued on until Reed Market became Mt. Washington Dr, where he passed his old middle school. Mt. Washington Dr wound around the west side of Bend, which then intersected with Shevlin Park Rd. He made a left hand turn and the road brought him right to the expansive stretch of grass and forest that is Shevlin Park. He worked for Briggs Archery Supply, which was a business that did exactly what you would expect. On this day, they would not be at the main store. </b></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> </b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton's boss, Clay Briggs, was a sometimes gruff, though mild mannered man. He was five feet, eight inches tall, where Trenton stood about an inch higher. Clay had a big, bushy mountain-man beard that was mostly gray. It seemed though, that the remaining black hairs were doing their best to form an alliance right down the center. He was in healthy condition, with more muscle than the average sixty-one year old. His face was round and red most of the time, and his eyes were a fierce color of gray. The man's exclusively white hair was wilder than normal, Trenton noticed as he was chaining up his bike to a nearby tree. He walked over to Clay's dilapidated Ford F150. Trenton took in the paint that was peeling from the body all around the sides. The tires and bottom third of the truck were completely caked in at least an inch of dried mud. The license plate read DRINK.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Trenton, my boy!” shouted Clay. “Didn't think you'd get here so quick. I know you don't like drivin' 'less you gotta, but I wouldn'a thought you here so quick.” Clay took a swig out of his coffee thermos. Trenton knew there were at least two shots of Carolan's Irish Cream and another shot of Bushmill's White Bush Blended Irish Whiskey in that coffee.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Hey boss,” was all that Trenton could muster at the moment. The dream he had been having was still weighing on him. He was attempting to get his walking legs back, when he realized he had never stopped at a store for cigarettes. “Got any smokes, boss,” he asked as he pulled out his pack. “I forgot to stop and get some on the way here.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “'Course you did. Wouldn'a thought you'd 'member anyhow. 'S'why I picked you up a pack on my trip here s'mornin'. How many you got in what you got left?” Each word in Clay's sentences generally blended into one super word.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Two,” said Trenton seeing where this was going.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Well, I'll trade ya. This nice, unopened blue pack, for the two in that ol' beat up one.” Clay held the cigarettes out of the window. “Now get in here, we got work needin' done.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton took the pack and handed Clay the two cigarettes he had left, and walked around to the passenger side of the car. This wasn't the first time Clay had anticipated Trenton's random needs. In fact, Trenton got the distinct impression that Clay was able to see the future. Trenton opened the passenger side door and climbed into the cab. He opened up the new blue pack of full flavor American Spirits and pulled the front and center cigarette. He went to grab his lighter and realized it was still in the cup holder of the lawn chair on his front porch.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Bought you a lighter too, seein' as you'll be needin' it,” said Clay as he handed Trenton a fresh, forest green Bic. “Now open that glove box.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton popped open the panel in the dashboard and the smell of marijuana began to linger. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out Clay's clay pipe. Clay's wife, Sonya, had made the pipe for him. She was a very gifted sculptor and it had been a gift she made for his birthday the week before. It was shaped like an arrow where the arrowhead was the mouthpiece and the fletching was the bowl. A bud had been freshly loaded and, with his new green lighter, Trenton took a pull of the soothing sweet smoke and held it in for a long moment. He handed his employer the pipe and let out a cloud that filled the cab of the pickup. “Thanks Clay, I needed that. I've been having the most odd dream and it has fucked my ability to concentrate.” After a minute had passed he added, “Now that I think of it, the weed probably won't help.” Trenton refused when Clay went to pass back the pipe.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Good 'nough for me,” grumbled Clay as he took one more hit and drained his “coffee.” “Let's get set up.” With that, Clay and Trenton got out of the truck and slammed their doors shut. The doors had to be slammed, otherwise they would not completely close. Clay rounded the truck and popped the tailgate. In the bed of the truck were six hay bale targets on top of three folding tables and a large, dirty brown canvas bag, set off to the side.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton jumped up into the bed and started removing the targets. Clay grabbed the first one and began moving it into the park. Trenton finished unloading the targets from the truck as Clay was returning from placing the second one. They both got the last four placed in two trips, and made their way back to the truck.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Let's grab the tables in one go,” Clay said, sounding slightly taxed. “We'll take 'em to the trailer. “S'already set up o're there, opposite where them targets are.” Trenton hadn't even seen the storage trailer across the field. He didn't even think to wonder where it was. The day wasn't going so well, and he needed to find a way to snap out of it. The last thing he could afford at that moment was to be absent of focus. In less than two hours, hundreds of people from all over the northwest were going to be swarming in on Shevlin Park.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton unfolded the three tables. Together, they placed two of the tables lengthwise out. One from the back corner near the tire well of the trailer, and one at the front corner behind the hitch. The final table was placed parallel and opposite the trailer. That table connected the two others and made a nice square area, encompassing the door. </b></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> It was a black Haulmark trailer with a diamond plated aluminum roof and identical trimming. In white lettering across the side was written Briggs Archery Supply. Clay grabbed a steel dowel that he then connected into a notch located at the center top side of the wall, just inside the square outdoor workspace that had been created. This was Trenton's favorite feature of the mobile store. He had helped Clay tear the original roof off the trailer and, together, they made their own custom roof. Clay pulled outward on the dowel and the roof panel slid out with the applied leverage. At a certain distance from the trailer, long legs connected to the corners of the roof, fell out from their compartments in the trailer's frame. They rested on the ground almost where they should, and Trenton helped get them settled just right. The roof was now an awning over all three tables, and would eventually provide shade, once the matutinal sun had risen higher in the sky.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Inside the trailer were varying levels of shelves on all three walls, all stocked with different parts and products for, and including, bows and arrows. There was also a floating wall with products for display mounted everywhere there was available space. The counters lining the far wall and the opposite end, contained numerous amounts of drawers filled with tools needed for repair work. With the roof of the trailer now over the tables, everything inside was lit up by the sun. Trenton had so much respect for Clay, and this was just one reason why. His mobile store used no electricity. For all of the fancy mobile shops that were going to be popping up in Shevlin Park today, this was his favorite.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> This day saw the first ever Archer's Federation of America, or AFA, tournament in Bend, OR. When Trenton was in eighth grade, Briggs Archery Supply played host to a city-wide middle and high school archery tournament. For two months prior to the tournament, Trenton's phys. ed. classes revolved around learning how to shoot bow and arrow. Archery came so easily to him. He was immediately hooked into the world. Growing up, his favorite story was that of Robin Hood, so his fascination and passion for archery was a simple transition. When P.E. finally became the city-wide tournament, it was held at Skyliner Field on the grounds of Cascade Middle School, which is where Trenton was going at the time. Students from Pilot Butte and High Desert Middle Schools came for the tournament. Bend Senior and Mountain View High Schools were also represented. Trenton did more than prove himself that day, eight years ago. With winning the Middle School category, he earned an apprenticeship with Clay that had turned into a full time job and a friendship unmatched. </b></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Today, however, there was much more on the line. The AFA tournaments were prestigious events with sponsors lining up to have their equipment used by the top archers. To top it off, there was a cash prize pool of $250,000 to the top three shooters. First place took the bulk of the money and would leave $150,000 richer. To the runner-up, $75,000 would be their take home. Trenton would be grateful if he was able to sneak into the money at third. Even the $25,000 at stake for that finish would change everything for Trenton. He had spent about as much as he had won throughout the last few years since high school. Junior events never paid cash and, by the time he was out of high school, the competition in archery had become ferocious at it's nicest. Traveling to competitions around the country was expensive and wasn't always worth going.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The one thing Trenton was sure of, was that he was a shoe-in for the $7500 Longshot Competition. He had already checked the online register the night before, and out of the talent signed up, no one was more accurate at long distance targets than himself. Trenton always took pride in his ability to shoot farther than anyone. But for now, he would have to continue setting up for the days events.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton followed Clay into the store they had just built. Clay was already busying himself with checking the inventory one last time. “How'sa 'bout go'n grabbin' that bag from the back o' the truck, won'tcha. An' see if Mark's got his lazy ass here yet. He's got the other targets, you know.” Clay trailed off into some inaudible mumbling that Trenton was certain was a curse on the life of Mark Dagget.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> As he reached Clay's F150, he removed the canvas bag from the back of the truck and set it alongside, in the parking lot. He jumped back into the bed, and made his way to the front of the truck. Using the cab as a bench, he flipped open his pack of cigarettes and pulled the one in the front, left-center. Returning the pack to his pocket, he pulled out his new green lighter, and struck the flint. Inhaling the first drag, Trenton closed his eyes for a moment of silence. He blindly, but accurately put the cigarette back to his mouth and took another drag. He saw the old man's face in the mirror again, though this time, clearly in his mind.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The escaping smoke billowed from his mouth as Trenton, coughing, opened his eyes. Driving his way into the parking lot in a very new, very shiny, deep metallic blue, 2009 Dodge Ram, was Mark Dagget. Everything you could say about Clay's truck, was the adverse way to describe Mark's monstrous vehicle. Aside from being only a couple of years old, every inch of that truck, minus some hay on the bed rails, was spotless. He had built on a huge halogen light rack to the back of the cab. The tires on Mark's truck were at least three times the size of Clay's, and the whole of the truck was neatly two and a half feet taller than Trenton. Proudly displayed over the top of the windshield was a vinyl sticker with the words Hard Country Lifts. Inside the bed, however, looked nearly identical to the way Clay's did that morning when Trenton had first arrived.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> There was one small difference. Clay's truck carried six targets. There were six in the bed of the Dodge as well, but, as Mark pulled around the corner, Trenton was able to see a little flat bed towing trailer. Secured by some ropes, were four more targets, with just enough room for all of them to fit. Trenton took one last drag off his now half-smoked cigarette, and rolled the cherry onto the ground.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “I've got a halfie to finish when we finish,” Trenton yelled toward Mark. “Shut off you're shit and let's go!”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Mark turned off the ignition and opened his door. “Good to see you too, buddy,” he said as he jumped down onto the pavement. “It's only just now nine anyway, what the hell is wrong with you.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Daylight savings dick,” said Trenton. “It's ten, and you're an hour late. There's already three other shops getting situated and these targets are all we've got left to do for a couple of hours. I wanted some time to shoot before too many people arrived. We were the first one's here, Mark. Let's just get moving. Clay's checking inventory but he'll probably be done soon. He'll help you finish, but he's not happy.” Trenton paused. “Well, not happy, for Clay.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Did that old coot tell you to set your clocks back last night?” asked Mark. “Calm down, Trent. Today is Saturday. Daylight savings is on Sundays. <i>Always </i><span style="font-style: normal;">on Sundays</span>. He wanted you here early and you fell for it, SUCKAH!” Trenton thought about it for a moment, then he and Mark both began laughing.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> They had lined up the targets from their second trip to the shooting field and were heading back to the truck, when Clay stepped out of the store and made his way to the parking lot. The three of them made only two more trips and all sixteen targets were aligned and spaced into eight groups of two. Each pair was separated by five yards from any other pair, and one yard apart from it's partner.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Mark pulled out his pack of Marlboro Reds and began smoking. Trenton had that halfie still in his pocket. He lit his up, and the three of them went back to the F150. Clay opened the passenger door and then popped the panel to the glove box. He pulled out his pipe and gave flame to its contents. He handed it to Trenton, who took the final hit from the pipe. “You can load it, Mark,” Clay said in a flat tone. “You gotta redeem your actions, boy. Sixty minutes late and no phone call. I ought'a fire you. God dammit, I ought'a setcha free.” </b></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Hush your tone, old man,” Mark said reaching into his pocket. “I told Trent you've been messing with his sleeping pattern. No more charades, he knows what time it is.” He pulled out a little clay bottle that had a cork stopper in the top. This was another one of Sonya's gifts, and all three of them had one. “Besides, I don't work for you.” Mark pulled out the cork and removed a large marijuana bud from inside as Trenton cashed what was left in the pipe. Mark placed the pot in the fletching and handed Clay the honorary first hit. “Greens for my tardiness,” declared Mark, with a big grin.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Silent, the three men passed around a pipe that looked like a miniature, clay arrow. They watched eight different vehicles appear around them over the next fifteen minutes, and four of the sixteen shooting lanes were now in use. Trenton picked up the canvas bag and made his way towards the new, temporary, Briggs Archery Supply store. Clay put the pipe back into the glove box and slammed the passenger door to his truck. He began following his two employees to work. In single file, they walked to the trailer.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Mark,” called Clay as they reached their destination. “Set up the three'v our chairs out here. Trenton's off to go shoot. Seven lanes are full, so he's go'n now. We need the blue cooler out and under the trailer, keep the red one inside 'til later. AFA's go'n be here soon, and we still don't have out the wall.” Mark ran inside the trailer to get started. Trenton had set the canvas bag on the table furthest from the trailer.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> He was opening the bag when Clay spoke. “The Diamond Ice-Man. It's a Bowtech. Aluminum. Th're's a carbon shaft string suppressor, and it's set in-line with the stabilizer, so your hand shouldn't feel much'a the vibration. This is one of the best compound bows on the market. You have two hours to get used to it, then your lane time is up. You're in 13, I reserved it for you. Happy early birthday, kid,” said Clay.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton pulled out his new bow. There were wheels on both the upper and lower limbs. These were home to the tension cables and nocking string. Just above the grip was a resting ledge for an arrow to set. Only then did Trenton recognize the Hollow Pino sight by Vital Gear, mounted to the grip. He was stunned. “I, I, uh thanks, Clay. Wow.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “You earned it kid, now get.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton noticed inside the canvas bag was a red leather quiver that was hand-stitched. This was one from Jack's Traditional Archery. The model was called “The Chief.” Trenton had sold about ten of them. They were hand made, in Alaska, and had to be shipped to Bend. After the store added it's cost for commission and profit, he was selling them at almost two hundred seventy-five dollars. Now, one was his. With a brand new compound bow, hand-stitched leather quiver, and twenty-one new Carbon Express arrows with Medallion XR Target points, Trenton made his way to lane 13.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton walked down the line of shooters, watching intently each person that he passed. He was sizing up the competition, who was using which bows, and who was hitting the center of their targets. As he got to lane 11, he stopped short of breath. He had not seen this shooter's name on the online register the night before. Trenton's hopes for winning any money today had, in one swift instant, absconded into infinity. There, placing an almost perfect bull's eye, was Everette Hayes. Trenton watched as Everette nocked another arrow and landed it in almost the same spot as the last. Having lost any confidence he had gained when seeing his new bow, Trenton slumped his way down two more lanes and dropped his quiver to the ground.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> He was shaking as he nocked his first arrow to the bow. Standing at the fifty foot hash mark, that a team from the AFA had recently measured and marked, Trenton gave the first pull on his brand new compound bow. He was able to, so easily, bring the string back to full draw, that it caught him a little off guard and he missed the target completely. He nocked a second arrow and steadied his aim. Looking through the Hollow Pino sight, he aligned the needles for fifty feet and focused to the dead center of the target. The snap of the string brought very little shock into his wrist and the arrow was just left of the bull's eye. “Whoa,” Trenton said under his breath.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> On top of the targets now lay digital screens that displayed the speed of the arrow. Trenton's screen was flashing 309 fps. He pulled a third arrow from his new quiver, and drew back. The display was flashing again, only this time it read 312 fps. Astonished, Trenton continued firing arrows at his target. The dream he'd been having, the world around him, the sights and sounds of over a hundred people in the park, time itself, all melted into the repetition of snapping arrow after arrow.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton didn't know how long he had been shooting, until a representative of the AFA seemed to materialize along side him. The man from the AFA was about a half foot shorter than Trenton. This made it very easy for Trenton to see the top of his poorly disguised bald head. It had to have been the absolute worst comb over Trenton had ever seen before. He had a thick black mustache and his little beady eyes made him very reminiscent of the Monopoly character, Rich Uncle Pennybags. He was only missing the top hat, cane, and tuxedo. The man had a clipboard and was wearing an official AFA staffer badge. The name on the badge was Dir. Charles Fulman. Charles was, however, wearing glasses with a thin wire frame that kept sliding down his diminutive nose. </b></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Ten minutes, Mr. McClelland,” was all he said, adjusting his glasses. He then moved on to the next lane. Trenton rocketed three more arrows toward his target in lane 13. The digital radar reader was flashing 319 fps, his highest speed yet, as he collected his arrows, and walked back to the trailer.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Mark was talking with a man and his son about the different bows available for a young archer. The boy had to be around eight years old, but as Clay always liked to point out, the earlier you start, the more time you have to get better. Trenton came around the side of the tables, and hopped over the wheel well into the little square merchandise area. He set his bow and quiver both back into the dirty canvas bag it had originally been in earlier that morning. He opened the small side compartment built into the trailer and, placing the bag inside, looked back at Mark's customers. The boy had a stunned look of awe as he stared directly at Trenton. The man noticed what was going on, and asked his son if there was something wrong.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Did you see his bow, daddy?” shouted the little boy excitedly. Trenton smiled.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “I sure did, Jonathan. Very nice looking, huh?” The man then turned to Trenton and asked, “Are you any good with it, McClelland?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Somewhat shocked that the man knew his name, Trenton just nodded slightly. He told himself that the man must obviously be with the AFA, though he wasn't truly certain that was the case. “Come and check out the Longshot Competition tonight,” was the only thing he could think to say, and with that, he turned his back to the three others and stepped into the sunlit trailer.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Clay was inside, restringing what was becoming increasingly obvious to Trenton, was that little boy's bow. He realized that the young boy must be competing in the Junior event that would start in only a couple of hours. Juniors were on the schedule to start at 2:30 that day. The clock on the wall showed the time to be 12:37 in the afternoon. This was the actual time, not the premature daylight savings time Clay had convinced Trenton of.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Clay finished setting the string and gave several quick, half draws and let them back in slowly, so as not to actually fire the string. “Good as new, kinda” he said, standing from the one work stool. “Tell his dad th're ain't no charge for Juniors today.” Clay handed Trenton the bow, and Trenton walked outside.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Free for Junior competitors today, sir.” Trenton handed Jonathan back his bow, and he and his father headed off into the bustling center that had been erected around the shooting field. The smell of barbeque cooking had begun to fill the air. Several local restaurants had begun to set up their vendor stands. Mark and Clay grabbed the wall of merchandise that had been set up outside, and lifted it into the trailer. Trenton grabbed a can of orange soda from the blue cooler, cracked it open, and took a large swig that drained nearly half the can. Almost gasping for air, he saw Clay and Mark emerging from the trailer once again. Clay had a large sign that read “CLOSED FOR OUR OWN REASONS,” and he locked the door.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Le's go'n get us a real food lunch, boys,” said Clay heartily, and with that, Trenton, Mark, and Clay of Briggs Archery Supply left behind their trailer as they departed for the parking lot. “Yer truck'r mine, Mark?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “MINE!” Mark shouted instantly. “Oh God please, <i>anything</i> but that death trap you still drive.” Mark pulled out his pack of Marb Reds and removed a cigarette. Trenton followed suit and removed the front right-center cigarette. Trenton lit his Spirit and was about to return his lighter to his pocket, when Mark said, “Fire.” </b></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Here,” said Trenton as he handed Mark the new forest green Bic he had been given that morning. Mark lit his cigarette and returned the lighter to Trenton. Trenton placed it back in his pocket as they reached the two trucks. Trenton noticed there was an extra wide birth in the traffic around the back of Mark's Dodge. He rounded to the backside of the truck. There, still connected to the hitch, and blocking an entire lane, was the little flatbed trailer hitch. “Did you forget to do something,” asked Trenton.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “What,” was Mark's response. “It isn't that bad.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “God dammit boy,” came Clay's burly voice. “You best remedy this 'fore I get to tannin' your worthless ass. Loads'a people are jus' tryin' to find their way by, an' you got the whole damn place blocked, worse'n my colon.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Oh, shove it.” </b></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Boy, don't give me no shit. Unhitch it, then back out.” When Mark had unhitched the trailer, Clay lifted the front end to maneuver the flatbed on its two wheels. As Mark backed his truck out, Clay set the trailer back down in the same spot Mark had been parked in. “No reason we should lose'r place,” chuckled Clay, almost to himself.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton climbed his way up into the back seat of Mark's truck, but found the height to be difficult to overcome. Clay struggled his way into the passenger seat of the cab as well. They each belted themselves in, and Mark said, “Where to, boss?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “New York.” Clay didn't have to say anymore, because Mark and Trenton both smiled. They knew where they were going. </b></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> They made their way out of the parking lot and onto Shevlin Park Rd. Instead of turning onto Mt. Washington Dr., where Trenton had originally come from that morning, Mark kept heading straight. Eventually, the road became Newport Ave and brought the three men right into downtown Bend. They crossed the bridge over the Deschutes River and, at the traffic light, turned right onto Wall St. Mark signaled to get into the left lane. At the first light they came to, they turned left onto Oregon Ave.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Any spot'll do, boy,” Clay said as Mark drove passed two empty parking spots. They got to the light at Bond St. and took another left. Just on the left side of the one way street, were two open spots that sat together. “Those two, boy, do it,” Clay barked, and Mark brought his truck to an abrupt stop against the curb. Just in front of them was a black canvas eave with a picture of King Kong on the Empire State Building and the words New York City Sub Shop Est. 1985 written in white.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Inside the little restaurant, they stepped into the line leading up to the counter in the back of the shop. Up above the counter was the menu board, but neither of the three men needed time to consult it. Trenton ordered a whole Wall St. which was a sixteen inch long, hot roast beef sandwich. The meat was grilled along with onions and provolone cheese was melted on top of both. The bread, Italian dressing, lettuce, and tomatoes were all important to a proper New York Sub Shop sandwich, but, as far as Trenton was concerned, the banana peppers were the key ingredient that tied the whole thing together. Mark also ordered the Wall St, but without the banana peppers.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Clay, got to the counter and said to the girl running the register, “The usual, Jenna.” The girl rang up the order.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Soda, chips, or cookies gentlemen?” Jenna asked them. When they all three asked for soda, she just said, “Grab your cups.” She finished adding the total together, and Clay payed for lunch.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton and Mark got Mountain Dew, and Clay filled his cup with Diet Pepsi. They set up a table for themselves and waited for their sandwiches to cook. The woman cooking threw two bags onto the stainless steel shelf above one side of the kitchen, behind the counter. “Clay, you're up.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> In one bag were Trenton and Mark's sandwiches, four individually wrapped, eight inch subs, two of which were marked NP handwritten in black marker. The other bag had three eight inch Bronx's, extra everything. The Bronx, as all New York subs, was the same thing Trenton and Mark got, but with turkey instead of roast beef. Clay opened one of his three wrappers, and bit into his lunch. No one said anything as all of the food, save for one of Clay's eight inch sections of sandwich, were devoured.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “For Sonya?” Trenton asked after washing down his last bite with his beverage. He was pointing at Clay's uneaten portion.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “'Course. Did'n think it was for the mayor did'ya?” Clay let out a booming laugh at his own joke. “Clear the table, boys, an' le's get the hell outta here.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> They made there way out of the restaurant, and bypassed Mark's truck. They headed south on Bond until they got to the light on Oregon Ave. They made their way through the crosswalk, to the other side of the street, and turned right towards Wall St. Halfway up the block, with the door propped open, was Sonya Briggs' store, The Clay Cafe. It was an amazing little shop where people could come in and learn how to make, and paint, if they so desired, different decorative and functional items out of clay. Or they could just come in for an espresso. Sonya was a very good teacher, and her passion for pottery and sculpting fit perfectly with her love of coffee. Sonya and Clay had owned this store now for eleven years.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Inside, Sonya was with a table of customers. She looked up as her husband walked into the store. Sonya was fifty-eight years old, but was wearing thirty-five as well as anyone. She had long, silky brown hair that she tied into a large knot on the back of her head. The only thing that betrayed her age was a humble amount of gray hairs that grew from her temples. She was short, five feet tall exactly. Though petite, Trenton knew that, if push came to shove, she could still disarm twenty men without being seen. She smiled at Clay as she was crossing the store. “I think you're just the sweetest man alive.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “An' you ain't bad y'rself, lady,” said Clay as he embraced his wife in a hug that could suffocate a grizzly. They gave each other a kiss, and Clay handed Sonya the bag from NYCSS. “Got'ya a diet cola, too.” He went to give her the cup, but she waved her hand at it. Clay took a big pull on the straw, thankful for the drink.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “So what time are you shooting tonight, Trenton?” Sonya was as supportive of Trenton as Clay. She never missed a tournament or exhibition match.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Longshot starts after the dinner, about six thirty. The dinner starts at five. You'll be there for that, too, I assume,” Trenton asked.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Maybe not. This sandwich'll be enough to hold me through next week. I need to get back to work now, but I'll see you tonight. Hi Mark,” she said, noticing that Mark had not actually stepped into the store.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Hi Mrs. Briggs,” said Mark. “Bye Mrs. Briggs.” He grinned.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “If he calls me Mrs. Briggs one more time, you just go right ahead and get rid of him for me,” Sonya whispered through a clenched teeth smile. She gave Clay a meaningful look that said “Do it.” The two of them quietly laughed together as she leaned in for one last kiss from her husband. “Thanks for lunch. I'll call you when I close up.” With that, she turned back to the three other women at the table that were apparently making flower vases. Trenton, Clay, and Mark all left The Clay Cafe and walked back to Mark's truck.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Clay pulled out the pack of two cigarettes he had traded Trenton for earlier. He pulled out one of them, and stuck his hand, palm up, right in front of Trenton's face. “Lie'tr,” he said. Trenton reached into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. As Clay was sparking his very first smoke of the day, Trenton pulled out his fourth, not counting the halfie from “breakfast.” Mark joined them on the sidewalk after he had turned the music on in his truck. He was listening to Pantera's album Reinventing the Steel. The song that blared loudly from the truck was screaming <i>“YESTERDAY DON'T MEAN SHIT!”</i></b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Ya need that to be any louder?” Clay complained. “Why can't you kids listen to something more practical, like Mommas and the Papas, or Dylan, or Floyd, or somethin' audible on more than jus'a crack yer eardrums level. This shit is drivin' me to drinkin'. God dammit Mark, leas' you could do is turn it down some. Christ.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Yeah, sure boss, whatever.” Mark was clearly perturbed, but acquiesced to Clay's ranting. “Here, maybe you'll like this one,” as he started searching through his I-Pod. “Welcome to the Machine, by Pink Floyd. Well, originally anyway. This version is by Shadows Fall.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> A sludgey metal band started in with a slow, choppy yet, melodic guitar riff. <i>“Welcome my son. Welcome to the machine. Where have you been? It's alright we've told ya where you've been,”</i> the music played on, much quieter this time.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “The singer actually sounds like David Gilmour,” Clay said, sounding shocked. He finished smoking his cigarette, and climbed up into the truck. Trenton followed him in as Mark hopped into the drivers seat. They drove back to Shevlin Park listening to different bands cover different songs from the sixties and seventies. One of those bands was Evergreen Terrace remaking the song All I Ever Wanted by Depeche Mode. “Always did like that song,” Clay said as it came to an end. “Oh dammit. Well, we're jus' gonna hafta use the woods.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “What's wrong, boss?” Trenton asked confused.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Left the pipe in my truck,” Clay said matter of factly, then added, “I gotta piss.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> A few minutes later, they were back in the park's parking lot. The digital clock on the dashboard read 1:48. Trenton jumped down to the pavement and lifted the flatbed trailer that was saving their spot. He pushed it up onto the grass, and Mark was able to squeeze his truck in next to Clay's and a soft top, neon purple, Geo Tracker with bright pink writing. Mark and Clay got out of the driver's side of the cab, and Clay opened the passenger door of his own truck. He popped the glove box, and grabbed his pipe and his clay jar. Having what he was looking for, Clay slammed the door shut.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> They strolled through what was now a small city in Shevlin Park. Some merchants only had tables under pitch canopies. Some, mainly the restaurant vendors, were extremely elaborate. Converted campers, large tents, yurts, a couple eighteen wheelers, and even a tepee had all surrounded the park. Close to a thousand voices created and air of excitement, as people were buying, selling, looking, or waiting. Trying not to stall for too long, Clay, Trenton, and Mark all hurried past the crowds. Trenton saw a few AFA officials informing shooters to clear the field. It was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon, and the Junior events would be starting shortly.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The three men from Briggs Archery Supply reached the tree line where Shevlin Park became the Deschutes National Forest. They hiked into the woods about two hundred yards or so, until there was no one in sight. Clay, pulled his jar and pipe out of his jean's pockets, and handed the pipe to Trenton. “Finish it.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> As Clay was removing the cork from his jar, Trenton set flame to what was almost all ash inside of the pipe. A small amount of smoke escaped his lips, and the lingering after taste of stale smoke and butane perched itself on Trenton's taste buds. With a look of revulsion, he tapped out all of the ashes, and handed back the pipe. Clay over loaded a large amount of marijuana into the pipe.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Yer the only one'f us that ain't been first yet,” said Clay, handing the pipe to Mark.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Glad you didn't forget about me,” Mark teased. He took an extraordinarily large hit off of the pipe, and almost instantly started coughing. “Christ, Clay. Wha-hut do you fe-heed these fu-hu-ckers?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Tasty, ain't they?” Clay was grinning wider than humanly possible. One thing he was very proud of was his “herb” garden. To Clay, this was an enormous compliment. “Special Blend No. 13,” was the last thing he had to say. Silently, they continued smoking until the last had been burnt away.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “One more cigarette, Trent?” Mark asked, already holding his Marb's in his hand.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Sounds good.” Trenton reached into his pocket and found his pack and lighter. He and Mark lit their cigarettes and leaned against a couple of severely large pine trees. Clay, standing from the rock he had been sitting on, checked his pockets to ensure he had everything.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “See ya down there, boys,” and Clay walked away.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Did you know that Everette Hayes is shooting today?” Trenton asked Mark as they remained behind to smoke.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “NO! You're kidding, right?” exclaimed Mark. “You're not serious?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Oh, unfortunately...” Trenton trailed off, starting to feel much more concerned about the tournament ahead.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Well, you can beat him,” Mark said, unsure of his own words. At that moment, the crowd in the distance erupted in cheers. This was the official start of the AFA's Junior Level Archery Tournament. “That's our cue, Trent.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Together they walked back through the forest towards the park, finishing their cigarettes as they sauntered. They reached the tree line and observed as the throngs had moved together to fence in the shooting field. Trenton and Mark decided to watch for a few minutes. What they witnessed while they watched was something they had not expected to see. Trenton would have to tell Clay about it when they could. They paused for a few more moments, stunned, before heading back to the store. Another ovation rolled through the masses.</b></span></div>Timothy J. Tolerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04956534989280058816noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313887818191328580.post-7601142674319004222011-04-20T16:29:00.000-07:002011-04-25T10:38:46.980-07:00Lo Roden Bogen by Timothy J. Toler Ch. 2<div align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Neverwinter;"><span style="font-size: 49pt;">Chapter Two</span></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Neverwinter;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Trenton McClelland's Story: Part Two</span></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> <span style="font-size: large;">The crowd started to settle down as the</span></b><span style="font-family: Fantastic MF; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Director of the Archer's Federation of America, Charles Fulman, raised his hand calling for silence. He was standing in front of a podium on a stage that had been set up behind the targets. There was a microphone attached to the podium, and PA speakers on either end of the stage. As a hush fell over everyone, Charles Fulman began to speak.</b></span></span></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Thank you all for coming out to the AFA's 2010, Northwest Pro-Am Tournament!” The crowd again started screaming. Charles Fulman raised his hand, once more to quiet the people in front of him. “Today's event's,” he continued, “will be underway with the Junior Level tournament, ages eight to twelve. Immediately following will be the Junior Level tournament, ages thirteen to seventeen. At the conclusion of all Junior events, at about five o'clock tonight, we will break for dinner. For those interested in staying, there will be an amazing buffet arranged in Aspen Hall, just off of Pacific Park Ln, not far off that direction,” he said, pointing the wrong way towards Aspen Hall. Several local audience members, laughing hysterically, corrected his mistake, and only then was he able to move on. “After dinner, in my opinion, is the most exciting event of every tournament. The Longshot begins at six thirty!” The crowd once again burst into a buzzing brouhaha. Charles Fulman waited for everyone's full attention. “LET THE GAME'S BEGIN!” he screamed. Thunderous applause bellowed from the anxious, whooping mob.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Only lanes 5-12 were being prepared for the Juniors ages eight to twelve because there were only eight shooters in that division. Jonathan Somerset, who had just turned nine years old in January, was one of those eight participants. He was nervous, mostly due to the over twelve hundred spectators. His father, Jason Somerset, was an avid bow hunter and had taught Jonathan how to shoot by the time he could walk and talk. He was aware of all of the pressure mounting in the tense afternoon atmosphere.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Jonathan took his place in lane 7 first at the thirty-five foot mark. All of the other Juniors in his division were lining up as well. Jonathan was small, even for a nine year old. He had sandy blonde hair and dark, chocolate colored eyes. When his father caught his attention from the crowd, Jonathan gave a wide smile, revealing several missing teeth. Jason waved to him, and they each then nodded to one another. Next to Jonathan, in lane 8, was his round one opponent.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The boy he was about to face off against had to be at the border age of twelve. Jonathan couldn't believe how big this boy was. Several heads taller than Jonathan, he also seemed to cast a shadow three times larger than Jonathan could. The boy's name tag said Alexander Norton A11.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Each shooter will line up at the thirty-five foot hash mark for their first attempts,” came the voice of Charles Fulman through the speakers. “They will shoot five arrows at their targets and we will determine who was closest to the bull's eye. Each shooter will then move back to the forty foot hash mark, and will shoot five more arrows. If, at this time there is a tie between shooters, they must move back to the fifty foot mark, and at that time, they will be required to take turns shooting only three arrows, alternating one shooter at a time. The winner of each round will advance to the next. The non-winners will have another year to practice.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Jonathan took his mark. Odd lanes were the first to shoot, then the even lanes took their turns. Being in lane 7, Jonathan would fire the first arrow. Earlier in the morning, he had snapped the string that had been on his bow since he had gotten it. He and his father had gone to a big burly old man with a bushy black and gray beard to have it restrung. While they were there, he saw the nicest compound bow he had ever seen before in his life. “Too bad we can't use compound bows,” Jonathan muttered to himself.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Jonathan's bow was a basic recurve made by Samick. It's limbs and grip were covered in a hardwood laminate that was beginning to peel. From tip to tip, it was an inch shy of two and a half feet tall, which was only a foot and three inches shorter than Jonathan himself. He was well aware by now that his bow liked to shoot the arrows up and slightly to the left. Correcting his aim towards the target, down and to the right of the bull's eye, Jonathan landed his first arrow right in the center circle. His second shot was even closer to the center. Shots three and four were a little shy of the bull's eye, in the next ring out. Concentrating hard, he nocked his final arrow, aimed, and SNAP! Dead center.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> His opponent looked dumbfounded. At twelve years old, Alexander Norton knew he had already met defeat. He took his five shots, none of which landed in the center circle. As they stepped back to the forty foot hash mark, a very similar scene transpired. Jonathan Somerset ended his first round, victorious.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> With four shooters now eliminated, only four remained. Jonathan had been moved to Lane 8. In Lane 7 stood his round two opponent, Phil Hart, who would start the second round. Jonathan watched as Phil landed three of his five arrows within the bull's eye. That feat alone, however, was not going to be enough to stay alive to see the final match.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Jonathan's first shot hit just left of the exact center of the target, and he would not need to fire any more from the thirty-five foot mark. Moving back to the forty foot hash mark, he again waited for Phil to take his five shots. Two of them were very close, but there was definitely room for Jonathan to win round two outright. On his third arrow, he did just that. Phil shook Jonathan's hand and wished him luck in the final round.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the finalists of the Junior's eight to twelve division!” exclaimed Charles Fulman's voice over the PA. The crowd began cheering. “Shooting in Lane 9 will be young Jonathan Somerset, age nine.” More cheering and applause broke out from the surrounding gallery. “And shooting in Lane 10 is last year's champion, Diego Ruiz, age eleven!”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> After the loud ovation had died down, Jonathan took his</b></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>stance at the thirty-five foot hash mark. His nerves had not yet gotten to him, but the real pressure was now escalating. All of the attention was focused directly upon him alone. He took another look around, only to see thousands of eyes staring back at him. He nocked an arrow, pulled back to full draw, steadied his aim and dispatched his first final round arrow. It had landed completely in the second circle, outside of the bull's eye.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Hands sweaty and shaking, he nocked his next arrow. With the snap of the string came the thunk of the arrow hitting the target, very close to the heart of the bull's eye. His third shot hit within the bull's eye, but further away than the second. Nocking his fourth shot, he did not remember to aim low and right. For only the fourth time in the tournament, Jonathan missed the bull's eye altogether.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Taking careful aim, Jonathan nocked his final arrow at thirty-five feet. At full draw, he stood there, motionless. He made certain his aim was down and to the right as his fifth arrow was sent hurtling towards the target. Another bull's eye, but there was plenty of room for Diego Ruiz to take the first heat.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> In Lane 10, Diego took aim and fired. It was a bull's eye, but no one could tell if it was close enough or not, so he nocked a second attempt. This one left no room for doubt. Diego Ruiz took the early lead in the final match.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Jonathan moved back to the forty foot hash mark. If he was nervous before, he was now beyond apprehensive. He had to win this heat in order to force a fifty foot shoot out. Otherwise, Diego Ruiz would be the reigning champion two years running. Jonathan reached into his quiver, and pulled out his first arrow. Taking aim at full draw, he fired. He hit the outer edge of the bull's eye, crossing just slightly into the next ring out. His next shot wasn't much better. Neither his third, nor his fourth arrows were able to give him any confidence that he would win, though they had been bull's eyes.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Making sure that he was aligned where he thought he should be, Jonathan gave his final arrow every bit of concentration he could muster. With so much riding on this final attempt, no one in the crowd was making any noise. He released his grip on the string and the arrow dashed to the target. It hit within the bull's eye, only millimeters from the black dot in the exact center of the target. The audience erupted in a deafening approval of his final shot. Proud that he had done his best, and could do no more, he awaited Diego Ruiz's turn.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Just as Jonathan had done to Phil Hart in the second round at thirty-five feet, Diego was about to accomplish against Jonathan. He nocked his first arrow, took aim, and off he sent it. There was no doubt in Jonathan's mind, nor anyone in the crowd for that matter, that the tournament was now over. Staring down at the target for Lane 10, there was no more black dot in the center of the bull's eye. There was only the shaft of a single arrow visible.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Jonathan turned to the boy that had just beaten him, Diego Ruiz, and offered his hand in congratulations, tears beginning to well up in his eyes. Diego shook his hand, and Jonathan turned to see his father running towards him smiling.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “You did great, buddy. I'm so proud of you. You should have seen the look on that poor boy's face when you landed that last arrow. I thought we were about to see an eleven year old have a heart attack.” Jason Somerset chuckled and gave his son a big hug.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Jonathan, enveloped in his father's arms, wanted nothing more than to begin bawling right there. As several tears streamed down his cheeks, he wiped his face on his sleeve, and, sniffling, gave his father his best toothless grin. Several spectators had gathered around Diego to congratulate him on his win. As they finished complimenting the winner, a few had noticed Jonathan and a small crowd had amassed itself around him to give him their praises as well.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Just then, Charles Fulman's voice came back into the speakers. “Congratulations to the runner-up of the Juniors Ages 8-12. Jonathan Somerset, please join me on stage.” A large round of applause, accompanied by hooting and several loud whistles came from around the audience.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Jonathan looked up at his father. Jason smiled down at his son and said, “Go on then.” With the biggest, most obviously toothless grin he had yet had that day, Jonathan bolted through the people around him and climbed the stairs to meet several AFA officials. Charles Fulman was still at the microphone.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “And please,” Fulman continued, “let's hear it one more time for our Juniors Ages 8-12 champion, two years running now, DIEGO RUIZ!” As Charles Fulman shouted into the mic, the sea of people, now in front of Jonathan, began chanting “DEE AY GO!” over and over again as Diego made his way onto the stage. After the hysteria had lulled, Charles Fulman began again. “To our runner-up, you receive a $100 gift certificate to Briggs Archery Supply, here in Bend. Jonathan, I congratulate you on your fine performance today. I would like to present you with the second place trophy. Well done.” The crowd gave him a round of applause as Jonathan accepted his winnings. “Diego Ruiz. Congratulations on your achievement. You will receive a $250 gift certificate to archersunlimited.com. I would like to present you with your trophy.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Jonathan didn't notice the crowd. Being on stage, in front of that many people, he was so overwhelmed with wonder, that none of his senses could focus. He held his trophy up in the air, proud of what he had done. He didn't win, but he still felt like he had. Charles Fulman began announcing the next event, Juniors Ages 13-17, as the other officials escorted Jonathan and Diego off stage.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Jonathan ran back to his father, who smoothly lifted him off of the ground and swung him around in the air. Jason brought his son into himself, and they hugged each other for several moments. When Jonathan was back, feet on the ground, he examined, for the first time, his trophy. He had already noticed is was smaller than the one Diego had won, but he hadn't had the chance to really look at it yet. There was a light gray veined, white marble base. Atop the base sat a bronze figure of an archer with his bow at full draw. The man was so detailed, his cropped hair seemed to be blowing in the wind. Even the quiver that was on his back had several arrows jutting out of it, and a criss-crossing diamond pattern down its length.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> In his other hand, Jonathan remembered he had a gift certificate. He handed it up to Jason. “Oh, that's perfect,” his father said happily. “That store is where we got your bow restrung this morning. He did excellent work. We can go look some more later, but how would you like to go get some ice cream, right now?” Jonathan screamed with excitement, and together the two of them strolled off towards the food vendors. They left behind them the conclusion of the first round of the next tournament.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Darby Wilson sat off to the side of the competitors, watching as fourteen lanes of boys shot arrows to determine who would move on into the next round. She was not your typical sixteen year old girl. As a few of the lanes began to clear out, she heard the boy who had won his first round in Lane 14 shout out at her, “The next bye you're gonna get is from me, when I kick your ass! Why do they even let stupid girls enter? You should just go shopping or something!”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Taking into consideration that one; it wasn't her fault she was the only female archer her age; two, it wasn't her fault there weren't an even sixteen shooters and that the AFA decided to give her the BYE for the first round; and three, she was better with a bow than anyone she had ever shot with before, she decided to just ignore the foolish teenage boy. He was soon to find out that talking a big game, and actually having a big game, were two entirely different ways to go about his life. She said nothing as all of the lanes cleared for round two.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> As fortune would have it, she was set into Lane 12 for the start of the round. Lane 11, was filled by that same boy who had just been yelling at her. She noticed his name tag said Dana Butler A13. She smiled to herself, so he wouldn't notice. Amusing as it was that this mouthy little shit had a girl's name, Darby knew she would have to center her attention on the task at hand, not spend time arguing with some idiot. Because Dana was in Lane 11, he would start the second round from which one of them would be eliminated. Darby was confident it would not be her.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> She watched as Dana completed his third shot. Just as his first two shots were, this was also a bull's eye. However, Darby saw her opponent was having trouble bringing in any of his arrows. The fourth lingered on the edge of the inner circle as well. When he missed the bull's eye entirely on his last shot, he turned and looked at Darby with a presumptuous look on his face. “Good luck with that, girl. I bet you can't even hit the target. Don't choke!” He placed his hands over his throat and began to pretend gag and convulse.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Darby pulled a single arrow from her quiver, and threw the rest behind her. From thirty-five feet, Darby rarely missed. Stretching the string back to full draw, and aiming for only a moment, she released the arrow. It hit its intended target. The black dot in the center of the bull's eye was now the shaft of an arrow and the first heat was over. Dana and Darby both lined up at the forty foot line, and again, Dana would shoot first.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Beginner's Luck,” he said to her, his voice having lost its self-important tone, though the words remained cocky. “Watch and learn how it's really done.” Dana took his first shot and hit the inner circle. His second and third shots were even closer now to the center. He had found something within himself that allowed him to improve in the second heat. It appeared to Darby, that he was actually shooting more accurately, as the pressure had mounted on his side. Dana's final shot was nearly dead center. “Beat that, bitch.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Darby stared her opponent down, with a dangerous look in her eye. Dana's face went pale with the sudden loss of blood pressure inside his head. She made sure he knew she meant him harm, and then she began laughing hysterically at him. As pale as his face was just a moment ago, it was now twice that red, compensating for not only embarrassment, but a rush of anger that pulsed throughout his hormone driven body.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Before Darby had finished laughing at him, so hard her eyes were closed, and before Dana could think of what he was doing, he had balled up a fist and swung as hard as he could towards her head. Several people had begun watching what was going on between the two shooters in the last two lanes. As his fist slammed into the side of Darby's face, the people that were observing gasped in one collective breath. Her mouth filled instantly with a mixture of thick, foamy saliva, and rich, warm blood.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Several of the onlookers rushed to see if Darby had been seriously injured, while a few older men had restrained Dana from being able to inflict any more damage. One of the AFA officials hurried to the scene and began asking people what they had seen.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “I don't even think she's said a word to him yet,” said one of the other boys from the competition. “He called her a bitch,” said an older woman. “She's only even shot once,” came another voice. After the official seemed to have gotten a good enough sampling from everyone as to what had taken place, he turned to Darby.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Ms. Wilson, are you alright?” he asked her. All she could do was nod to him and spit out more blood. Her head was throbbing, and her vision was still blurred by tears that had formed in her eyes. She was shaking uncontrollably at the sudden burst of adrenaline. “Are your parents here? Do you want to press charges?” the official asked her, looking nervous.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “NO!” shouted Darby. Her parents would be furious with her if they found out she had come to compete in an archery tournament. The man from the AFA looked shocked at the way she reacted to his questioning, and she quickly added, “No, my parents aren't here. I'm fine. He's just a sore loser and I hadn't even beaten him yet. No, we don't need to deal with my parents or the police.” Darby looked around and found her quiver. She slid out an arrow and nocked it to her bowstring. People leaped out of the way as she took aim from the forty foot hash mark and fired. Again, she had replaced the little black dot in the bull's eye with her arrow. “Just to prove a point,” she said to herself.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> A splattering of applause broke out at her resilience. Charles Fulman, the man directing the tournament, had even come down to see what was holding up the third round. He looked at Darby's most recent shot, then looked back to her. He said only one word. “Winner.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Dana Butler's parents were now escorting him out of the park and you could her his father yelling. “I can't believe you hit a girl. For Christ's sake son, you'll regret this day for years to come. Just wait until we get home!” Officially, Dana had been disqualified from the tournament for unsportsmanlike conduct, although everyone was aware that he had gotten off far too easy. He could have been slapped with a Measure 8 violation, which was a “Zero Tolerance” policy enacted in Oregon for violent crimes dealing with minors.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> When all of the chaos had settled, Darby had picked up a large group of fans preparing to watch her in the next round. From fifteen original shooters, there were now four going to the third round. Darby Wilson had still not technically won a single match, and she was now entering the semi-finals. She walked over to Lane 9 and prepared herself for the first shots from thirty-five feet. This time, she would fire first.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> As her first arrow landed slightly off to the left, Darby realized that her vision still had not been fully regained. She nocked a second arrow and fired again, this time landing in the second ring. Trying not to lose her composure, let alone her second match, she asked her opponent for a time extension. He said it would be fine, and she ran over to a little table set up behind the shooters. There, she found several large water coolers and tall red plastic cups full of icy cold water. She grabbed one of the cups and threw its contents on her face. The second one she grabbed, she took a drink from, and ran with it, back to her lane. Quickly gulping down the rest of the water, she returned to the thirty-five foot hash mark, and took aim at her target once more. The third arrow hit dead center. Her opponent would have to try very hard to beat her this heat. Her fourth and fifth shots were more careless, because she knew she could not get any closer.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Her opponent, Jake Albright, was not able to get any closer, either. In fact he could not place an arrow to match hers, and Darby Wilson had won the first heat. Both of them stepped back to the forty foot mark, and again, Darby would have the honors. Each arrow she shot seemed to creep inward toward the center mark until finally, her fifth attempt landed mere millimeters from the true bull's eye. Glad to look over and see Jake Albright unsure of his chances, Darby took a seat in the grass and awaited Jake's turn to finish.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The audience surrounding Lanes 7-10 were rapt with attention. The object of their scrutiny being what took place in this match. Lanes 7 and 8 had finished their match, and the winner, Brady Hayes, would be meeting either Jake Albright, or Darby Wilson in the finals, to determine the champion. The outcome of this match would be decided in five shots.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Jake lined up the target and fired. The arrow was not close enough to win, so he would have to try again. He nocked the second arrow, pulled back, and fired. Again, within the bull's eye, but not as close as the first. His third arrow was what caused a huge round of applause. It looked as though it had come very close to the direct center point. His fourth and fifth shots, though all bull's eyes, were not any better than his third.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention for a moment,” came the familiar voice of Charles Fulman. “Mr. Albright has forced a measurement against Ms. Wilson.” The audience began screaming wildly. “As the judges are removing the targets for the measurement, I would like to thank all of the Juniors who came out to compete today. Let's have a round of applause for all of the participants!” The audience again exploded. Only a few moments had gone by before everyone was shushing their neighbors.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “The judges have measured each shooter's closest shot to the center. Miss Wilson, whom has had a very rough day, if I do say so myself, measured out at two point three millimeters,” Fulman stated. There was a subdued celebration, as no one was sure yet who had won the second heat. “Mr. Albright,” he continued, “has measured out at...” With the pause in his sentence, the only audible sound in the entire area was a flock of Canadian Geese that were flying overhead. “TWO POINT SEVEN MILLIMETERS!” As Charles Fulman shouted this information, a barbaric uproar overpowered Darby's ears. The crowd had a new hometown hero, and her name was Darby Wilson.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> For what seemed like five full minutes, the crowd was in hysterics. After the decibels had decreased, there was still a very loud buzzing from hundreds of excited conversations. Darby made her way over to Lane 8, where she would face one of the toughest competitors she would ever again come up against. Standing in Lane 7, where he had won his last round, was Brady Hayes. Darby knew that any archer with the family name of Hayes, was as good as impossible to beat.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> As she approached her final opponent, he winced as he made eye contact with her. “Darby, right?” Brady asked. Darby nodded her head affirmatively, and he then asked, “Does it still hurt?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “No. Thank you,” she lied, pleased that he was concerned, but not wanting to show any weakness. Brady was seventeen, and this would be his last Juniors event. He was a very attractive young man, with dark brown hair that fell over his deep brown eyes. Darby had seen him once before, and had an instant crush. One of the top archers in their age group in the country, he was also an extremely humble, and soft spoken person. Darby liked that, because it was something of herself that she saw in him.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Are you sure,” Brady asked again, “because that looks painful.” He pointed at her face. Only then did she realize she had no idea what she must look like. Darby reached her hand up to the left side of her face, and ran it across her cheek, where she had been punched. The whole of the left side felt swollen, and the area was tender, and hurt to touch. She started to get the picture in her head. The entire left side of her face had to be deep purples and blues by now. Her jaw was also very stiff, and she felt every bit of movement her mouth made when she spoke.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “I'm fine, thanks.” Darby wanted Brady's attention, just not this way. She decided that if he was going to worry about her, it would be over the outcome of the final match, not her stupid bruise. Right then, Charles Fulman walked up the staircase leading to the stage. Everyone was waiting with their full attention to hear what he had to say, but instead of walking to the podium, he began talking to and shaking the hands of the other officials that were standing in a row along the back of the stage. Any minute, he would be announcing the start of the championship match in the Juniors Ages 13-17 Division. But there was something he was all of the sudden very excited for.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton opened the blue cooler and pulled out a can of Lemon-Lime soda. He cracked it open and made his way back over to his chair that was set up within the merchandise area of Briggs Archery Supply. He sat down and took a big chug, draining half the can in one loud gulp. He set the can into the cup holder of his chair. From the pocket in his sweatshirt, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He lifted the lid and raised the pack to his lips, using them to secure a single stick. He lowered the pack, closed the lid and returned the cigarettes to his pocket. There, he switched the pack for his new Bic and, striking the flint, set flame to the end of his cigarette.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Get me one'a them, wontcha?” Clay said to Trenton. Clay had smoked his last cigarette after he had returned to the store following there mini excursion into the woods after lunch. Trenton opened the lid on his pack and held it in front of Clay, gesturing to take one. Clay held out his hand again for the lighter, and soon Mark Dagget had a Marb in his mouth.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The three of them sat there, silently smoking cigarettes. Clay reached behind the back of his chair and, without looking back, popped open the top of the red cooler. Inside were two gold cans remaining of a six pack of Miller Genuine Draft, and six 22oz bottles of Silver Moon Brewery's selections. Clay, still not looking and, with one hand still smoking a cigarette, removed one of the cans from its plastic ring and closed the cooler. Across the long field of Shevlin Park, the voice of Charles Fulman began speaking.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “If I may have your attention please. Let me introduce to you our two finalists in the Juniors 13-17 age division. Brady Hayes, and Darby Wilson!” As he shouted the names, the whole of the crowd in front of Briggs Archery Supply was cheering. “A coin toss decided who would open the championship round. Mr. Hayes won that coin toss and he has elected to be the first to shoot. Give them one more round of applause!”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> When the noise had died down, Trenton and Clay were each finishing their cigarettes. Trenton hurriedly drank down the last of his Lemon-Lime, and Clay had already finished the beer he had just opened, and then opened his final can of MGD. Mark leading the way, the three of them began rushing to watch the final match take place.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> As Trenton and Mark were returning from the woods to the store, at the beginning of the tournament, they had noticed a huge crowd of people rushing around. One of those people had informed the two of them that there had been a fight, and a girl had been punched in the face.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> They had told Clay what they had heard and seen, and that she was competing in the tournament. When Charles Fulman announced Darby Wilson would be a finalist, all three of them were very curious to see what this girl was made of.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Pushing their way through the crowd of people, trying to get a glimpse of the final match, was not an easy task. From where Trenton stood, he could just make out the girl, Darby. He watched her fire toward the target. It looked to him to have landed on the center point. The crowd in front of him cheered, clapping their hands violently and stomping the ground so hard, Trenton thought that that was what a small earthquake must feel like.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> He moved closer and saw her land another shot almost touching her first. The crowd went even more insane. As her opponents target came into view, Trenton realized that, though one arrow had also removed the black dot from his target, the second closest was not remotely touching the first. Darby Wilson had won her first heat.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The screaming turned into whispers as her opponent lined up at forty feet. Trenton realized then that this boy, Brady Hayes, was unmistakably the younger brother of Everette Hayes. Knowing this to be the case, Trenton knew it meant also that this girl, Darby, had not only pulled off a stunning victory in the first heat, but also, that she was still a long way from winning the tournament. Just then, he thought he saw something by the stage. A brown robe. He whipped his eyes back to the spot he thought he'd seen it, but nothing was there.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Brady fired his first shot from forty feet, and landed it exclusively in the center dot. This time around, his second arrow did nestle up to the first. And the third. The fourth arrow hit the shaft of one already embedded in the target, and deflected itself into the second ring. The fifth arrow was a bull's eye, but not touching the other three. Wildly, the crowd applauded Brady for his fine shooting.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The crowd began fervently hushing itself to give Darby an atmosphere in which to concentrate. Lined up at the forty foot mark, Trenton watched as her first attempt was as accurate as possible. Her second arrow stuck right against the first, just as Brady had done. One thing was certain, this girl knew how to shoot. Trenton was impressed at her third shot. She had employed the archer's version of a golfer's lay-up. Instead of trying to kill the bull's eye and have three shafts touching, all she did was make sure that it didn't land as far out as Brady's fourth furthest arrow. </b></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton knew from experience that what she was doing here was placing a guide shaft. As long as Darby was able to place her first of two remaining arrows, clustered in with the two in the center of the target, all she would have to do on her final arrow is land it anywhere closer than her guide and the tournament would be over. The audience around appeared to be keen to this fact as well, for Trenton did not witness anyone near him blink. Very few people were even breathing.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Darby gave her fourth arrow a full draw and steady aim. Trenton could hear the snap of the bowstring and the whispering whistle of the flying fletching. Perfect shot. The arrow indeed rested right against the other two shots clustered on the center point. A quick burst of cheering and applause disappeared before it had even really begun. The heat was not over. She took out her fifth and final arrow.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The clanking sound of the metal arrow tip ricocheting off one of the embedded arrows, brought a sudden, horrified gasp from the spectators. Darby's last arrow did not land in the bull's eye. It did not land in the second ring out, either. Trenton stared down at her last attempt, and the final shot was barely on the target paper at all. The shaft hung downward, diagonally to the right, and was almost flush with the paper. If her guide point did not measure out closer than Brady's fourth furthest shaft, there would be a fifty foot shoot out, best of three.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Please may I have your attention,” came an all to familiar voice. Trenton looked up and saw that it belonged to the Uncle Pennybags looking man that cleared him out of Lane 13 that morning. Charles Fulman was standing at the podium, hands raised above his head calling for quiet. “Miss Wilson has forced a measurement against Mr. Hayes. Please bear with me a moment while our judges are figuring it out. Because we are so near the end of the Junior Division tournaments, I would like to take this time to remind you that at the conclusion, there will be a buffet in Aspen Hall for anyone wishing to attend.” He turned to two of the officials standing off to his right and smiled. The two men grinned back at him. Charles then turned to the line of six men and three women behind him, presumably other officials and some of the sponsors. He nodded to them, and they all began grinning as well. “Do make sure...”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The judges began making their way up to the stage, and Charles' voice had been instantly drowned out by the excitement of the people he was attempting to address. Trenton turned to ask Clay what he thought of this girl with a half-purple face, that was making life difficult for Brady Hayes, but his mouth was no sooner able to open when Clay asked, “She's one helluva shot, ain't she?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Yeah, boss,” Trenton responded. “Imagine if she beats a Hayes. She's gonna have a story to tell, if she pulls this off. Not too many people can say they've done it.” Trenton felt sick knowing that he was only a couple of hours away from his own trouble with Everette Hayes. Trying not to think about it, he changed the subject. “We can hear whats happening from the parking lot. You guys want a smoke?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Not now, kid. Figure I'm 'onna stick this one through.” Clay wasn't one to smoke cigarettes as regularly, but Mark looked as if he couldn't wait to get out of the crowd. As conversations began to dwindle, Mark and Trenton shoved their way through the audience, and walked quickly toward the parking lot.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Now that I have your undivided attention,” came Charles Fulman's voice through the PA, “I would like to continue with what I was saying before I read the results from the judges.” Trenton laughed as the whole crowd behind them let out a collective, disapproving groan. “Do make certain not to forget that after tonight's dinner, the longshot competition will begin. There are only seven shooters signed up for this event. I would really like it if some of you would come and register before or during dinner.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Only seven,” Mark said, shocked. “How are there only seven people signed up for it?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “One thing,” Trenton explained, “it doesn't pay out like tomorrow's event. Secondly, most of these guys here, they're good at close range shooting. Put them out another hundred and fifty feet, another two hundred feet, a lot of them lose their depth perception. Finally, the reason most won't do it is it can be a huge game changer. You might feel confident in your shooting of the 50-60-80, but miss the target completely, three for three no less, and you're no longer so hopeful for the next day.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Sounds kinda like being on tilt, doesn't it?” asked Mark. While he loved working with Clay and Trenton, and while he was a decent shot himself, Mark was a poker player, not an archer. He preferred to win money by having his opponents willingly give it to him.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Exactly like being on tilt.” Trenton lit his cigarette, and inhaled deeply. He had gone to some of the private games that Mark had invited him to, and one night, he found out the hard way that poker was an <i>easy</i> way to misplace your rent if you were ever on tilt. Thoughts aren't as clear as they should be. You no longer are able to make rational decisions based on instinct and practice. Emotions guide your hand when you're on tilt, be it at a poker table, an archery tournament, or at work giving a presentation for the boss of your boss's boss. If you tilt, you need to do everything you can think of to forget the past disaster, and focus on the present situation.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton and Mark continued smoking as Charles Fulman's voice filled the distant background, announcing the outcome of the measurement. “Our judges have informed me that they had to measure out to the fourth. This means that both Mr. Hayes and Ms. Wilson's closest three shots were equidistant to each other. The fourth arrow from the center did come out two different distances. With a measurement of four point seven three centimeters is Mr. Brady Hayes!”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Where normally the audience would be buoyant with enthusiasm for a competitor who had shot four arrows within four and three quarters centimeters space, they were instead, deeply absorbed into the silence, waiting to hear of their heroine's proficiency. Trenton took one last long pull off of his cigarette, and dropped it to the asphalt beneath him. He stomped out the cherry with his feet.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Ms. Wilson's measurement, which I'm sure is what you are all waiting to hear was...” Charles Fulman spat slow staccato syllables when enunciating Darby's measurement, almost as if each were it's own word. “FOUR. POINT. SEH. VEN. TWO. CENTIM. METERS!”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Even in the parking lot, well over fifty yards from the side of the crowd, the sound was deafening. Trenton had to cover his ears while the city of archery enthusiasts had just witnessed a near miracle. Not only had Darby managed to beat Brady Hayes, but she had done so in two heats. Trenton was highly impressed.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Good for her, then,” Mark said. “Wanna see if Clay wants a smoke smoke 'fore dinner?” Trenton thought that maybe he should abstain from another session, but after a brief reconsideration, thought it couldn't hurt. He realized now that dinner was the only thing left between him and a likely face off between him and Everette Hayes. A bit of weed would help lower his nervousness.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> They headed back as Fulman was presenting the two finalists with their winnings. Brady had received a $500 gift certificate to Jack's Traditional Archery, which is where Trenton's new quiver came from. Darby had won $750 gift certificate to Briggs and that meant he would get a chance to congratulate her in person when she came into the store to redeem it, if the chance didn't come today. The audience was disbanding, most headed in the direction of Aspen Hall, but some passed Mark and Trenton on their way to the parking lot. When they found Clay still standing where he had been earlier, he was on his phone.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Sure's shit, babe. I love you more, alw'ys.” Clay smiled as he closed the flip. “Reckon we oughta head towards and get grub 'fore it's gone.” Trenton was about to ask if Sonya would be joining them for dinner, when Clay said, “Shain't go'n be here for twenty minutes, so no sense waitin' 'round.” He ushered Trenton and Mark to his sides, and the three of them motivated themselves to follow the rest of the crowd towards food.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “WAIT!” Mark shouted, startling Clay and Trenton out of their lemming-like state. “Why don't we, uh, just wait in the store for her?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Now why'n the hell would we wanna do that?” Clay said. Trenton noticed an all to familiar twinkle in the old man's eyes, and Clay all of the sudden grinned as wide as Trenton had ever seen him go in the past. “I knew I kept you 'round for a reason, Mark. It's your quick thinkin'. That, and your witless charm.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Hear me, y'old nut bag. I have no charm of which to speak!” Trenton snickered. Listening to Clay and Mark banter back and forth was one of his favorite things to do. Every once in awhile, he found himself stepping in, but his relationship with Clay was far different than that of Mark's.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Mark was the first one of them to reach the tables, and he pulled the furthest one out at an angle, enough to allow all three of them to get through, and then replaced it once they were. Clay closed the roof over the trailer, the legs of the awning snapping back into the storage slots. Inside the trailer, Mark pulled out his clay jar and loaded his own glass pipe that he called “Pipesces.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The pipe was a solid black, basic glass steamroller, with a quarter inch carb at the end. Below the bowl was an ergonomically designed clear glass protrusion. The design allowed the person holding it to cup the almost ball in their hand, and use their index finger to block the carb with ease. Encased inside that clear glass were two neon tetra fish, both about an inch long. The fish each had a bright blue strip along their sides, and a bright red stripe along their tail fin.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Mark passed the fresh bowl to his best friend, who took a hit. Exhaling the smoke he had been holding in his lungs straight into the air where the roof was again in place, Trenton felt his nerves lessen. As the pipe was handed back to him, he inhaled another lung full. From out of the corner of his eye and out the doorway of the trailer, Trenton saw someone standing on the outside of the far table. “Boss,” he said, using his eyes to indicate to Clay what was going on.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Clay stood from the one work stool and went outside. Trenton and Mark made eye contact, and both of them leapt towards the seat at the same time. Mark had been quicker, and yanked the stool from Trenton, scraping the feet along the metal floor. Trenton slammed into the back counter and, with the impact, shouted a loud “GRAAGHH!!” When he turned around, Mark was sitting on the stool, chuckling to himself.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Keep it down in there, you two!” Clay shouted from outside. Trenton tried to hear what the two men were talking about, but all he could make out were monotonous mumblings. The conversation outside continued on for several more minutes, all the while, Mark and Trenton were only able to hear words like, “This isn't...” or, “highly unusual,” or, “...provided with,” or, “additional event.” Those last two words intrigued Trenton the most. Finally, the two men outside seemed to wrap up their conversation. “Thanks a lot, Charles,” they heard Clay say, before he stepped back inside.</b></span></div>Timothy J. Tolerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04956534989280058816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313887818191328580.post-31628373778587700612011-04-20T16:28:00.001-07:002011-04-25T10:48:29.862-07:00Lo Roden Bogen by Timothy J. Toler Ch. 3<div align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Neverwinter;"><span style="font-size: 49pt;">Chapter Three</span></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Neverwinter;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Trenton McClelland's Story: Part Three</span></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: large;"><b>C</b><b>harles Fulman was sitting at a long</b></span><span style="font-family: Fantastic MF; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>banquet table that had been set up on the stage, on the far side of Aspen Hall. Hundreds of people were taking their seats, with mounds of different foods on their plates. Additional tables had been brought in and several people were setting up an extended patio dining area outside, to accommodate everyone that arrived for the dinner. Though the temperature was quickly becoming frigid, most people had no choice but to take their food into the cold September air. The patio did have several propane heaters scattered around it, but Charles doubted they made it comfortable enough to those seated ountside. The sun was low on the horizon, and would set before dinner ended marking the start of the next phase of the tournament.</b></span></span></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Charles looked around the hall and could not help but be pleased for what was still to come tonight. The people that he had just been addressing out in the park, were now all engrossed in their own conversations. Looking down the buffet line at the people deciding what to eat, his eyes wandered over to the entrance. Charles noticed that Clay Briggs and his two man crew had just walked in the door, accompanied by the stunning Sonya Briggs. Charles had met her once before, at last year's Northwest Pro-Am that took place in Spokane, Washington, and had never forgotten about her. Not just for almost sixty, she was gorgeous (period) as far as Charles was concerned. He was also aware that one of the two boys with them was Clay's best shooter, Trenton McClelland.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Charles had seen him shoot last year, and was dazzled by his performance in the longshot. What Charles knew and had informed Clay of, being that he was one of the sponsors, was that this year, a new event that McClelland should excel in, would be taking place. When the dinner died down a bit, and more people were focused on him rather than their food, Charles would announce the exciting news. For now, he contented himself to a juicy fried chicken breast.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> He looked over to the Hayes' table. This family had always traveled together to the different AFA events. He had seen them in Houston, Texas for the Southern Pro-Am not even two weeks ago. The father, Benjamin Hayes, was the champion of the first seven AFA main events Charles had hosted, when he was made Director. That was fifteen years ago. Benjamin's oldest son, Everette, had been the reigning champion for four years now, and would be competing tonight in the longshot, as well as the next day, in the main event. Benjamin's middle son, Brady had just taken second place in the Juniors 13-17, and as a favor to his father, not to mention the lack of competitors, the seventeen year old boy would also be competing in the longshot. Charles was clear though, that Brady still would not be allowed to compete in the Pro-Am tomorrow.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Placing a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth, Charles continued scanning the crowd. To his left sat James Greene, Vice President of Bowtech, and to James' left sat Doug Howsen. To Charles' right, Brenda Gotts, his Assistant Director, was giggling her shrill giggle that made him want to stab his fork through her piercing little vocal chords, maybe taking with it her hideous red, plastic pearl necklace that she always wore. He cringed as she let out an extraordinarily loud nasal snort followed by more agonizing laughs.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trying not to let his mind dwell for too long on such evil, yet relaxing imagery, he set his focus back to those people in Aspen Hall. He saw Anatoly Petrov, a mean, drunk Russian from Vancouver, Washington that most people just called Tolik. What always confounded Charles was that, as drunk as Tolik could get, he was undoubtedly one of the top fifteen archers in the world, as long as he kept his temper.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Sitting with Petrov and having a very shifty-eyed conversation, was Lincoln Hough, also from Vancouver. While they weren't raising their voices, this talk they were having seemed to be a very heated discussion. Lincoln continued glancing around at the other tables and finally locked eyes on Charles. They stared at each other for far too long, making Charles exceptionally uncomfortable. In Lincoln's stare, Charles saw an intense flash of anger. He was going to look away, when Lincoln had brought Tolik's attention to him as well. Tolik looked about ready to leap from his chair and charge Charles with intent to kill. However, Tolik looked back to Lincoln, said a few inaudible words, then both men stood and left Aspen Hall. They would miss the announcement Charles would be giving momentarily, but he didn't mind so much right then.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> As Tolik and Lincoln's table was cleared, Trenton McClelland had finished piling his plate with food, and staked claim to the available seats before someone else could. Charles watched as he sat down his plate and told two people behind him that the rest of the seats were taken. The couple seemed to get upset over this and were about to argue with him, when Clay Briggs and his other employee walked up and took their seats. Sonya showed up only moments later, and Darby Wilson, the young girl with the bruised face, who had just won her division tournament, was in tow.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The table filled with the group, and the couple that had missed out on the only seats inside, bit their tongues and marched out the open doors leading to the patio. Charles laughed quietly to himself and took another bite of fried chicken that he had topped with the last of his garlic mashed potatoes.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> He looked at Darby, and couldn't help but feel sorry for her. She had won her tournament, but it had cost her something. Her face now stained black and blue, with a constant reminder that she had been punched awfully hard. When Charles had told her she would be allowed to compete in that night's longshot competition, she thanked him and explained that she would be at the dinner, but her parents required her home by seven. Charles didn't question her about it, but something about the way she had declined, told him that she was going to have trouble explaining what had happened to her today.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Brenda Gotts leaned in toward Charles. “I think now would be a good time to tell them all what's going on,” she said, spitting as she talked, her mouth full of food.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Yes, you might be right,” said Charles through gritted teeth as he wiped some of her dinner off of his neck. “I will announce in three minutes, for I must excuse myself at present.” With these words spoken, he stood up, the legs of his chair scraping the stage beneath him as his legs straightened. He made his way towards the bathroom.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> As he stood up, a hush fell over the crowd but, as Charles started walking away, the conversations of the hall began again. There were still over eight hundred people left between the main hall and the patio of tables outside. He was glad to see that there would be a good crowd to hear about the new event that had just been arranged. He walked into the men's restroom.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> While he stood at the urinal, Charles thought of the strange old man that had approached him earlier that day. He'd had bright green eyes, though he must have been nearly seventy years old. His lips showed the years more so than even his drooping cheeks. The old man was possibly of Middle Eastern descent, but he had spoken clean, unaccented English, so Charles didn't know for certain. He had very little hair, only a few strands on the back of his head, and a large, beak-like nose. What was most peculiar about this man, was that he had been wearing a chocolate colored robe tied with a simple, sandy colored hemp rope, and leather sandals even though it was an exceptionally cold day.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The old man had come to Charles during the last tournament, and had asked to speak with him privately. When they were out of sight and earshot of the people surrounding the final match, the old man presented Charles with a large manilla envelope. He had told Charles that this was to remain an anonymous donation, and that it must go (in full) to the winner of a secondary longshot competition. Charles was astonished, and found himself speechless at the time. He was about to express his gratitude, but the old man simply said, “There's no need,” and he had turned around, and left the park.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> As Charles returned to his seat, he did not take the time to sit down. He looked out over the people eating their dinner. After a moment, when everyone seemed to be ignoring him, Charles raised his hands into the air and yelled, “May I have your attention, please?” He then reached down to the table and picked up the microphone that had been placed there for him. A second speaker system had been set up outside.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Instantly, there were hushing sounds coming from every table, including those from the patio. “Thank you,” he continued, “I would like to thank a few people before we get started, can everyone hear me outside?” From the open doors, you could hear about a hundred collective “Yes”es. “Good. I would like to thank Kayla's Kitchen for catering this incredible buffet.” There was a large round of applause from the full bellied audience. </b></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Next, I want to recognize all of the work that the crew from Briggs Archery Supply have done for us today. They have offered up prizes for the Junior's events and have supplied us with the targets that you're shooting at.” Charles smiled down at Clay Briggs and mouthed the word “Thanks.” Clay smiled and nodded. “I want to thank Jack's Traditional Archery, archersunlimited.com, and of course Bowtech for all contributing to such a successful Northwest ProAm!”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The crowd gave their polite applause once more. Rumors had begun to fly about the hall, so more and more of the audience were hanging on his every word. Charles lived for the times that he was the focus of attention. He liked being important. He was important.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “In about forty minutes time, we will begin the longshot competition. There are nine shooters registered. If anymore would like to sign up, please see either Brenda Gotts, James Greene, or Doug Howsen.” Charles pointed to the people on either side of him as he said each of their names.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “For those of you already signed up for the longshot, I have some news that I am sure will please all of you. Tonight, for the first time at any AFA tournament, we will have an additional, similar event. The winner of this particular event will receive a cash reward of a minimum of eleven thousand, two hundred thirty-five dollars.” A sudden intake of air came from several tables at once, followed by the buzzing of confused and interested voices. The sound soon stifled, and Charles continued on.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “The longshot competition will begin at one hundred fifty feet. Each shooter gets three attempts. If there is a tie, the remaining shooters will move to one hundred sixty-five feet. If still there is a tie still, they will move back to one hundred ninety-five feet. There is little chance we will see that happen, but I am telling you this for scale.” Everyone just stared quietly at Charles (and stupidly, he thought) with confused looks, each of them thinking they had missed something.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Our new event will follow the longshot. It is the ringshot competition.” Understanding began to fill a few of the faces. Charles was just as surprised at the suprise that McClelland's face showed. He thought for certain Briggs would have mentioned it to him. “For those of you unaware of what the ringshot competition is,” he continued, hoping to stifle the murmurs, “let me please explain. Quickly though, each of the shooters in the longshot that would like to enter this, you will also need to speak to either Brenda, Doug, or James.” He paused for a moment before continuing.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Okay, so in the ringshot, shooters line up at two hundred seventy feet. This is a very difficult distance, and it will only be made more difficult to the shooters, because they aren't just aiming for a bull's eye. Within the three inch bull's eye, there will be set a one inch metal ring. Each shooter is only allowed one arrow. If no shooter penetrates the metal ring, the archer that gets the closest, receives the money I've just discussed. If a shooter does penetrate this ring, there is an additional $15,000 being put up by Bowtech. Enjoy the rest of your meal.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Charles sat down, slightly winded from his longest speech of the day. The hall filled with excited chatter instantly, as the news was now sinking in. Charles knew that most of the people that were planning on leaving after dinner, were now figuring out ways to stay and watch. He hoped that the young Ms. Wilson would be one of them though, he somehow doubted that she would be there, even still.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Charles had made one more trip to the salad bar and then one trip to the desert bar over the next twenty minutes. At this point, he watched as Clay and Sonya Briggs, Trenton McClelland, Darby Wilson, and the other young man with them got up, cleared their table, and left the hall. Tables were emptying left and right and Charles turned to his left where sat James Greene. “James,” he asked, “did you get any other sign ups?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “No,” said James.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “What about you, Doug?” Charles looked to the man sitting next to James.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Negative there, chief.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Charles turned finally to his right. “Brenda?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Sorry Charles. But, I do think there will be loads of people there to watch. It should be a fun night, be it eight or twenty.” She smiled, revealing lipstick on her two front teeth. He wanted to choke her right there, with his bare hands. Oh, how he hated Brenda <i>fucking</i> Gotts. He returned her smile, casually.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton, Mark, and their newest companion Darby, all walked toward the parking lot in Shevlin Park. They had left Clay and Sonya at Aspen Hall, so the two of them could have a moment alone together. Trenton pulled out his pack of cigarettes and Mark did the same.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Can I get one of those,” Darby asked, pointing at Trenton's American Spirits. He handed one to her, and struck the flint on his lighter, holding the flame out for her to use. When the three of them arrived at Mark's truck, she said, “This is me.” Confused, Mark almost said something, but then she unlocked the driver's side door of the neon purple Geo Tracker parked next to it. She inhaled another drag from the cigarette as she started the engine.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “You're parked right next to me,” said Mark. He then unlocked the truck's passenger door, as if he felt he needed to prove he wasn't lying.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Coincidence isn't coincidental,” Darby said back to him. “I am sure I will see you guys again, soon. Tell Clay and Sonya I said thank you. I still don't know what I'm going to tell my parents when they see me. They're just ridiculous.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> She had talked a lot at dinner about her family. Being an only child, her parents were extremely protective of her, but she said they just didn't understand her desires at all. She was a brown belt in her Aikido training, which she had to keep silent from them, and she had been shooting archery for three years without their knowledge.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> They were a wealthy couple that lived on Awbrey Butte, Bend's west hills, and believed that a daughter should take ballet and classical piano lessons, and other pretentious nonsense that they referred to as “proper” things for a girl. Darby put up with it for most of her life, and really loved the equestrian meets, but when she turned twelve, she had gained her own sense of independence and began seeking out intrests on her own. She just didn't enjoy the things her mother and father wanted her to.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Just tell them you fell off the stage at an impromptu dress rehearsal or something, or kicked by a horse,” Mark offered. Trenton noticed that Mark had been offering quite a bit of advice to her over the course of the evening. While it wasn't his business, he thought it inappropriate for Mark to pay so much attention to Darby. For one thing, she was only sixteen years old and Mark would be twenty-two next month. The thing that was really getting to Trenton though, was that Mark had a girlfriend. Mark, however, didn't seem to notice any of it.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “I doubt that'll work. They'd probably try and sue the dance studio or the horse trainer. I'd be better off if I wrecked my car on the way home.” Taking another drag off her cigarette, she dropped the last of it, still burning, to the asphault. She closed the door to her car and buckled up. “See ya!”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The gears clicked into reverse, she backed out of her spot, switched into first, and drove away. Trenton looked down to the parking lot. Darby had only smoked half of the cigarette. Not willing to let it go to waste, he scratched the cherry on the ground, then placed the filter between his lips, and blew into the cigarette, to expel any stale smoke inside. He reopened his pack, and set the halfie in with the rest of his cigarettes. He and Mark stood there, finishing their own.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “You know she's sixteen, right?” Trenton finally said to Mark.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “What's that supposed to mean?” replied Mark, indignantly.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “You know what I'm talking about. What would Ashley say if she saw you drooling all over Darby?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Fine, Trent, I'll smoke this bowl by myself. You can get fucked.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Seriously, Mark, you're an idiot.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Truer words, my friend, truer words.” Mark loaded a bowl into Pipesces, as they could make out the silhouettes of Clay and Sonya approaching them. Mark took the first hit, and handed it to Sonya as she walked up. She took a long, gentle pull off the pipe, and handed it to Clay. Clay in turn took a hit, and passed it to Trenton. The four of them smoked another bowl when the first died out. Trenton moved around the still open passenger door of Mark's truck. He climbed halfway into the cab, and pressed the volume knob on the stereo inward like it was a button. It was a button. When he released the pressure from his thumb, the display lit up showing 6:16. Forteen minutes to go.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Just then, two huge racks of lighting were switched on, illuminating everything in the dark park. Four spotlights in different, strategic placements, thunked on, and the single target that Mark and Trenton had moved prior to going to dinner was now bathed in bright light. The sun had set as they had finished their meals, and the moon was only a silver sliver due to the fact that first quarter moon was still two days out. It was offering very little help in brightening anything. The new long stretch of shooting field that Mark and Trenton had set up before going to dinner was now completely visible.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> At the time they were setting up the target, Trenton had questioned Clay why they were making room for a three hundred foot sight line for it, knowing that two hundred feet was normally all that was needed. Clay had even been silent on the subject of his conversation with Charles Fulman, outside of the trailer.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> During dinner, Director Fulman had announced the reasons why. Trenton remembered the wave of excitement he had felt at hearing the plans for a ringshot. He knew that if he couldn't beat Everette Hayes at the longshot, which was likely to be the case, the odds were now even with him to win the ringshot. It didn't matter how good a shooter Everette was, at two hundred seventy feet, he would have just as much trouble seeing a one inch metal ring as Trenton would. “I need to grab my bow from the trailer,” he said, with a hint of the nervousness setting in.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Let's getta move on then,” said Clay, boisterously. In a two by two formation, the group hurried over to the trailer, before making their way to mix in with the rest of the crowd.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Charles Fulman stood atop the stage near the fifteen unmoved targets. Ropes had been tied up the whole length, and on either side of the path to the new target. The sole purpose for these ropes was blocking off the bystanders from standing within the football field-length shooting lane. The crowd was much thinner than it had been throughout the days events, but that was not only because about a third of the crowd had left for the night, but now there was a much larger area for people to gather around and watch from.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The podium he had stood at in the daytime, however, had been moved from the center of the front of the stage, to the center of the side of the stage, closest to the action. Staring to his right, facing the same direction he had been facing earlier in the afternoon, he saw Clay's mobile store, where the two had discussed the ringshot competition prior to dinner. About fifty feet to the side of that trailer was where the shooters would be lining up for the bonus event.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> About a hundred feet closer to the stage than the ringshot shooting area, Charles saw Doug Howsen and Brenda Gotts sitting at a fold out table, right at the mark in which the longshot competition would begin from. James Greene was still marking the two hundred seventy foot line for the ringshot, and had not returned to the table. From where Charles stood, however, he was visible to everyone, and was simultaneously able to view all of the action. And he was nowhere close to Brenda.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Ladies and gentlemen, we are underway,” thundered Charles' voice through the PA. The normal crowd response was not what he got in return. There was mostly just a small round of applause, everyone seemed to be apprehensive. “There are still only eight competitors for either the longshot, or the ringshot. These competitions are quick by nature, so let's go ahead and have the shooters draw for position in the line-up.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton walked up to the little table that the two people from the AFA were sitting at, ready to dole out draw cards. There were three remaining, and he, and Brady and Everette Hayes were the only one's who had not yet drawn. Brady drew first, and his card had the number 2 written on it. Everette was right behind him, and drew number 8. Trenton didn't know what was left, but when he flipped over his card, he knew he would be the first to shoot.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Well, that sucks,” he said to himself quietly. He reached down to the ground and picked up his red leather “Chief” quiver, full of brand new arrows, only four of which he was going to get to shoot. His brand new bow he'd gotten for his birthday, even though his birthday was tomorrow, was resting in his left hand, parallel with him, just the bottom end sitting in the grass. As he flung the strap of his quiver over his neck and right shoulder, he raised his bow from its resting point on the ground, turned around, and awaited the start of his round.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Alright,” said Brenda Gotts of the AFA, “it goes in order, Trenton McClelland, Brady Hayes, Lincoln Hough, Donald Davis, Tolik Petrov, Clyde Magnuson, Richard Ballard, and Everette Hayes.” She handed a copy of the line-up to a young man behind her, and he ran off in the direction of the stage. “Shall we get started then,” she said, staring straight at Trenton. This was his cue.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> </b></span> <br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> He walked over to the hash line that marked one hundred fifty feet to the target. He looked down the field, and for the first time, glimpsed the crowd. People lined either side of the shooting lane, from where he stood, all the way down to the target. The air was popping with utter silence. Maybe the crickets and frogs were still singing their twilight reveries, but if they were, Trenton didn't notice. His ears were throbbing with every heartbeat, and his pulse was racing.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton lifted the quiver off, over his head, and placed it and the bow on the ground, so he could remove his sweatshirt. Though the desert night was a biting type of cold, and though he'd worn the hoodie all day, he remembered it obstructed his full movement as he had been practicing that morning. To himself he muttered, “better cold, than off.” It helped that adrenaline was warming his core temperature dramatically.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> As he dropped the sweatshirt on the ground, near his equipment, he pulled one arrow from the quiver, and lifted his bow. When he stood up straight, one of the other shooters yelled out, “Yeah, you tell 'em McClelland!” A few people started making whooping sounds. “Read his shirt,” another person called out.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton looked down at his shirt. Though the writing was upside down, he read quietly to himself, <i>Try as you might, I will keep my ground.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Fitting,” he thought to himself. He nocked the first arrow to the string of his bow. Pulling out to full draw coincided with the bow lifting itself into firing position. Using the Hallow Pino sights, the needles set to 150, he took aim, staring fifty yards away from a three inch circle.</span></b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>He raised his aim slightly above the bull's eye, and just before he let go, a flashing image of the old man from his dream shouted “BEGIN,” in a voice that vibrated his entire body. Trenton felt his fingers slip off of the string, and saw the arrow zip away into the distance. It landed roughly fifty-five feet shy of the target, and stuck in the ground at a thirty degree angle. The whole audience began to roar with laughter.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>With his hands convulsing violently, his face flushing furiously, Trenton made to grab another arrow from the quiver laying on the ground next to him. Nocking the arrow, he took three very slow, very deep breaths, exhaling so lightly that his breath came out of his mouth like swirling steam in the cold March air. Again, he stretched the bowstring back, and took aim. Before, he let go, he made sure no more sudden attacks of his psyche were imminent. He fired.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Though it took the arrow less than one full second to hit the target, Trenton felt three minutes pass. It had stuck on the outer cusp of the bull's eye. The crowd, instead of laughing hysterically, gave him a welcomed round of applause. Certain that he was not going to be advancing, he felt all of the pressure that had been mounting dissolve, though, it was being replaced with a weighty depression, and just a hint of rage. He fired the final arrow that he would shoot in the longshot competition. It had struck directly in the middle of the bull's eye. The crowd cheered for him, but he knew that his chance had been blown, and not even by himself, but that damn old man from his dream. Trenton walked away from the line as Brady Hayes began to take aim for his first shot.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The audience let out another ovation as Trenton threw his sweatshirt back on. His arms were already red and stinging from the cold. He meandered back over to where Sonya, Clay, and Mark were. They all watched him as he got closer until finally, Mark yelled out, “What the hell happened, Trent?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Clay lightly, but firmly, backhanded Mark on his left shoulder, and said, “Shut it, boy.” Mark rubbed the spot he'd been hit, but didn't say anything else. “So, Mark's kinda right, though id'nee? What was that first shot all about? You looked like you'd been hit in the head with sompthin'. Like y'almos' fell. Ev'thing alright, kid?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton had tried to talk to Clay about his dream earlier, but didn't get the chance. He also didn't feel like telling Mark about it, because then he would certainly never hear the end of it. Before he even knew what words had fallen into his mouth, he said, “Got stung by a bee.” Clay looked at him, appraisingly. Sonya just smiled at him, then turned to Clay, and the two shared a meaningful and concerned look with each other.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Well, it's not over yet, is it. Don'tcha start losing your head and focus in this whole mess. Just let these guys let this game work out. Take a seat off to the side and have a smoke. Letch'r self calm down a bit. Mark, you go with him. Don't ask unwanted questions, neither. Just let 'im smoke, right?”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Yeah, alright boss,” said Mark. Trenton was sure that the bee story had been good enough for Mark to swallow, so there weren't any unwanted questions that Mark was prepared to ask. They made there way over to the tree line and sat down in the grass. Trenton pulled out his cigarettes. He pulled one out, and counted what was left in the pack. Seven. Seven cigarettes left after he smoked this one.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The flame from his lighter flickered as it lit the tobacco. Trenton handed his lighter to Mark, and took a long, deep drag. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment then exhaled. He felt a little of his concern melting away. With each drag he took, more and more of his worry was evolving into hardened focus. Fifteen minutes passed before the people watching the longshot erupted so powerfully, it brought Trenton from his trance. “What just happened,” he asked Mark, who was trying to catch sight of the action.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “It looks like that nasty Russian guy toe lick or whatever, and Everette are the last two shooters.” Mark looked at Trenton with a shocked expression. “Everette just tied the Russian at one sixty-five and they're walking to one ninety-five.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton quickly jumped to his feet. He did not want to miss watching how the two men would fair at that distance. The one ninety-five was seventy-five feet shorter than the ringshot's two hundred seventy foot field. This was the closest he would get to seeing what the competition would be like for the next event. In four shots he would feel no less worried.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Ladies and gentleman,” Charles boomed into the microphone, “you're final two archers of the longshot, Anatoly Petrov and Everette Hayes. The winner will join me after this event for a brief presentation. Mr. Petrov, you are first to fire. Good luck.” With this brief announcement, the crowd was immediately fixed on Tolik. Charles stepped aside of the podium, and sauntered over to the corner of the stage. He watched Tolik sink the first arrow into the bull's eye. As well as the second, though both shots lingered desperately close to being in the second ring.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Tolik's final arrow was only a half an inch closer than the other two. John Ayers, a young page, one of five the AFA invited to all of this year's events, quickly disassembled the target. He had carefully removed all three arrows from the target sheet, then removed and replaced the sheet itself. This was done after each shooter in the longshot and ringshot. The pages were also tasked with this routine after each distance during the main tournaments. Charles knew it was mostly thankless work, but they did get paid (though not much) to travel around the country, so, Charles made a point not to thank them.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Everette Hayes nocked his first arrow. The audience was completely silent. He aimed carefully, and did not draw for almost a full minute. From as far away as Charles stood, he still thought he actually heard the tension of Everette's bow stretching. At full draw, Charles watched as Everette aimed yet again for nearly a minute. The excitement was unmistakable.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Everette fired. The arrow rocketed the length of the field and stuck less than an inch from the center point. The longshot was over. The crowd was in pandemonium as Everette waved at everyone. Charles stepped back around to the front of the podium. “Everette Hayes has won outright at one hundred ninety-five feet,” yelled Charles. “Mr. Hayes, if you would please join me on stage, just briefly of course.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Everette was running briskly toward the stage. The crowd parted to let him through and he hurried up the stairs to Charles. “Fancy seeing you here,” said Charles, smiling. The two men shook hands. Everette was twenty-nine years old. He had three or four days worth of blonde stubble covering his face and a dirty blonde, almost tan, crew cut. Charles had no trouble noting Everette also had quite a firm handshake. Everette had dark, brown eyes and Charles met them with his own and said, “Congratulations.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Thanks again, Chucko. I must say, I still haven't gotten sick of you.” Everette cracked a small grin and he said, “Get on with it then, I want this ringshot.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Of course you do, Hayes. But, I'm sure you also want your money.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>“What is it, seventy-five hundred? Yeah, I'm in a hurry to collect. What was it you just gave me in Houston? Oh, yeah, two hundred fifteen thousand. And how about Minnesota? That was actually called the Bloomington Quarter Million, wasn't it? Look, not to be arrogant, but that check won't pay for a fifth of my travel expense.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Well, I understand,” Charles said. He turned back to his podium. “I would like to congratulate this year's winner of the Archer's Federation of America's Northwest Longshot Champion, Everette Hayes.” The audience roared beneath them. “I am presenting him with this check for $7,500.” Charles opened a large flat briefcase that was three and a half feet long, and two feet tall. Inside were three, very large, cardboard checks. With a black Sharpie, he quickly scrawled out Everette Hayes, on the “Pay to the order of:” line. The rest of the check had already been filled in. As he pulled the cardboard novelty check from the briefcase, the crowd again gave an emphatic round of applause. Everette grabbed hold of the check with his left hand, and again shook Charles' hand with his right. He then waved to the audience one more time before running down the stairs, hurrying all the way down the remaining length of the field to the card draw for the ringshot. When he got to the tables at Briggs Archery Supply, there was only one card sitting face down as if it had been suffering a lonely wait. Everette turned over the card and revealed the number 8 for a second time.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Brenda Gotts stood from the chair she had been sitting in. She wrote down E. Hayes in the eight slot on the paper attatched to her clipboard. “Archers will shoot in this order,” she said, getting straight to the point. About fifty people from the audience had made their way over to the spot where the contestants would be shooting from. Most, however, were contented to getting a better view of the target. “Donald Davis, Richard Ballard, Clyde Magnuson, Lincoln Hough, Tolik Petrov, Brady Hayes, Trenton McClelland, and finally, Everette Hayes.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Benjamin Hayes shouted out from the small crowd that had joined the shooters, “Go get 'em, boys! Show 'em how we do it!” Several people chuckled, but the rest remained silent.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Remember, shooters,” said Brenda, ignoring Benjamin Hayes' comment completely, “that each of you will only shoot one arrow. If none of you successfully hit within the ring, the closest to the center will win. If someone does manage this shot, you will receive an additional payout. Good luck to each of you. Mr. Davis, you're first, Mr. Ballard on deck.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Donald Davis walked to the hash line marking two hundred seventy feet from the target. He nocked his arrow and, with little aim, fired. His arrow hit the outer circle of the target, just about as far away as it could get from the little one inch metal ring hooked in the center.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Richard Ballard,” said Brenda, “when you're given the all clear, you may take your shot. </b></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The older gentleman slowly moved to the hash line. Holding back at full draw, he took his aim. When the arrow hit the target, the crowd at the other side of the field let out a loud, frustrated groan. Richard Ballard had hit the bull's eye, but it was outside the ring. Still, this would be the mark to beat.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Now with the operation running itself, Brenda took her seat once again. She did not need to inform Clyde Magnuson that he was the next shooter. He seemed overly ready for his chance. When he released the arrow, he let out a small yelp. The inside of his left forearm had a straight, bright red welt developing on it where the bowstring had snapped.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> From opposite the park, people had screamed and quickly were dispersing on the left half of the lane. The arrow had flown wildly off target and zoomed over the heads of the spectators. His face began flushing heavily as he sulked off with his head and shoulders drooping heavily.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Lincoln Hough, who had travelled down with Tolik Petrov from Vancouver, stepped up to the line with one arrow. His road trip mate would shoot next. They were currently both furious with each other and had not spoken since dinner. Down the length of the field was a little tiny image of what was likely a fully grown, adult male, waving a white flag showing the lane was clear. He nocked his arrow.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The chinking sound of metal on metal gave everyone watching at this end of the field a cause to stop breathing. There were several moments of nothing, as people were very curious to hear what had happened. In the distance, Charles Fulman's voice came on over the speakers. “Three quarters of an inch to the outside!”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Mother FUCKER!” Lincoln screamed. “Fucking can't fucking believe.” As he stormed away, apparently unaware he was currently the shooter to beat, he angrily continued berating himself. Tolik Petrov stood like a brick wall and, as Lincoln came marching by, he purposefully caught Lincoln's left side with his own. This caused Lincoln, who wasn't looking, to lose his balance and fall backwards.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Doh'n be sush a poosie,” was all that Tolik felt the need to say, and really, of all the English he spoke, it was his favorite phrase. Lincoln, leapt up from the ground and seemed to be fighting himself as to whether or not to throw a punch at his “friend.” Tolik let out a deep, booming laughter that sounded more threatening than humorous. He walked up to the line and pulled an arrow from his quiver.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> With Tolik's back turned, Lincoln grabbed a small stone lying next to him in the grass. Just before Anatoly Petrov fired what could have been a perfect shot, no one watched Lincoln throw the rock. It landed hard on Tolik's left elbow and caused his arm to flinch as he released.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Lincoln ducked out of sight behind the black trailer of Briggs Archery Supply, prior to Tolik being able to whip his head around to catch him in the act of escaping. He ducked into the woods and was pretending to still be fuming when Tolik came charging at him.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “What the fuck is it now, Tolik,” Lincoln shouted, trying to slow the bulk that ran at him. “Leave me the hell alone!”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “You cohst me my mahney!” Tolik was raging. He closed the last few steps in on Lincoln Hough and threw a heavy and accurate fist straight to Lincoln's temple. “Fohcking piece ohf...oh!”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Lincoln moved so quickly that Tolik's sentence was startled silent. He took a large, fast step to the left and caught Tolik's fist in both hands. He pivoted on the balls of his feet and a loud cracking noise burst into the air, but was immediately stiffled by a roar of pain, and vulgar Russian slang. Lincoln bounced backwards a few feet and, turning around to face Tolik, felt a large tree branch collide with his rib cage. With no breath in him, he fell.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Tolik had never left his feet. Though his right wrist was broken, he had immediately grabbed a nearby fallen branch with his left hand, spun around as hard as he could, and landed the branch into Lincoln's side. Once Lincoln was on the ground, Tolik swung the branch again, only this time aiming for Lincoln's head.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> At the exact moment the branch smashed into his skull, Lincoln had already aimed a furious kick at Tolik's groin. Both men connected these final blows of their fight at the same time, and a half dozen men were then sprinting into the woods to stop it.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Now what's it you two got injured for anyhow,” a smiling Clay Briggs asked Tolik, who, though writhing on the ground, clutching his crotch with his good hand, was the only one of them still conscious. </b></span> </div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The ringshot competition had been haulted the moment the crowd around the shooters realized what was happening. Down the field, everyone was still waiting for Brady Hayes to take his shot, wondering what could be taking the final three shooters so long to figure out.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> A skinny twenty-five year old John Ayers came bolting up the steps leading to the stage. He was winded because he had run from the stage, to the where the shooter's stood, and back to the stage after that to find out what had unfolded.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “So, John, what is it?” Charles Fulman was standing back turned to the podium, waiting impatiently for this news.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “A fight broke out at the end involving Anatoly Petrov and Lincoln Hough. Brenda says that both men are to be disqualified. Furthermore, Hough has broken Petrov's wrist, and Hough is being taken to the hospital. He has still not regained his senses.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Charles stared at the young page. “Ayers, tell Ms. Gotts to continue. On second thought, go nowhere.” Charles turned to his microphone and explained to the anxious crowd what he had just been told. “Brady Hayes will shoot next,” he concluded, “followed by McClelland, and then Everette Hayes.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Brady Hayes stood at the two hundred seventy foot hash mark. He stared down the field at the glowing target in the far reaches. The familiar stretching sound of his bowstring tightening brought on a wave of nauseating uneasiness. Though he had already been shooting in front of a much larger crowd, he was able to, at the time, see what he was shooting at.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> He gently altered his aim upwards and let fly his one attempt. The arrow disappeared from them and within a single second, had burried itself in the second ring out from the bull's eye. Though the two closest marks had been disqualified, and though Brady's shot was within the range of Donald Davis' attempt, Richard Ballard was within the bull's eye, and was still the mark to beat. Two archers had yet to shoot.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “What I wantcha to do right now,” Clay said, holding Trenton back from taking his mark, “is let it all go. Don' worry 'bout none of it. Not the money, not the longshot, not the hundreds of people watchin'.” Trenton thought that rehashing the very things he had been trying to forget about was an odd way for Clay to help him, but then he continued.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Jus' take your time, and think about that stag you bagged last Se'temba. We were easily this far when you took aim. Take yerself to that mornin' and the rest'll close i'self out.” He patted Trenton firmly on the shoulder as if to send him off.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton meandered over to the line. He again dropped his quiver and bow next to him and removed his sweatshirt. Benjamin Hayes gave one of those “sexy” whistles, and everyone, including Trenton, laughed. He picked up his bow and drew out one arrow from the quiver. Repositioning himself, he nocked the final arrow that he would shoot that day.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> He pulled back with ease, and his sights were set out to ninety yards. Before he could think of what he needed to do, everything around him began to disappear. A heavy, cool mist surrounded him and the whole scene moved in slow motion. He looked out, straight ahead. Standing in a clearing, just about a football field away, stood a gorgeous buck, grazing in the meadow.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton could feel the tension of the readied arrow waiting very impatiently to serve its purpose. The buck was completely unaware that Trenton had been steadying his aim. Squinting his left eye halfway shut to keep the early sun from blinding him, Trenton peered at the animal with certainty, and let snap the string.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> As the buck fell over, instantaneously lifeless, there was a deafening roar of hundreds of voices, and Shevlin Park and the ringshot competition snapped immediately back into focus. Trenton was startled at what had just happened to him. He felt as if he had been transported directly into the memory of last year's hunting trip with Mark and Clay.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The arrow that he had drawn to fire was nowhere to be seen and, slowly, it dawned on him why. Mark came running up behind him and tackled Trenton to the ground. The cheering crowd continued its screaming for several more minutes. A familiar voice again filled the air down the field.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “MCCLELLAND HAS DONE IT!” shouted Charles Fulman over the PA. “MCCLELLAND'S SHOT HAS LANDED IN THE RING!” The crowd once again erupted and Trenton lay stunned on the ground, unable to come to terms with what he was hearing. Unsure of what else to do, Trenton burst into laughter and could not contain himself.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “I did it?” He asked between laughs. A few moments later he shouted, “I DID IT!”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Ain't over yet, kid. Don't go countin' no chickens.” Clay was right. Standing at the hash mark, awaiting the white flag, stood the final archer still to shoot. Everette Hayes took aim.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Anxiously, Trenton watched as Everette fired his arrow. For the second time in the evening, there was the distinct ringing sound of a metal arrowhead colliding with the metal ring. The audience lost it. Trenton felt his stomach plummet downward. <i>This is going to call for a re-shoot, or worse,</i> he thought to himself. He dared not say this thought out loud for a fear of making it come true.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> For several moments there was a tense silence that made everyone in the small crowd around the shooters shift uncomfortably. Finally, Charles Fulman's voice came back to life.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention.” This was an absurd formality, for the only sound had been the echo of his voice off the tree line into the forest. “We have a clear victory in the ringshot. Though both archers McClelland and Hayes successfully landed their arrows within the ring, one shot was within fractions of a milimeter from the center point while the other was nearly a quarter of an inch shy.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> Trenton felt his pounding heart sink, and he became dizzy to the point of exhaustion. </b></span><span lang="en"><b>The feeling that his chest cavity was being relieved of its contents was</b></span><span lang="en"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> so overwhelming, he thought for certain he would vomit. Clay seemed to notice Trenton's anxiety and laid a comforting arm over his shoulder, providing both physical and psychological stability.</b></span></span></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “The winner of the first ever Northwest ProAm AFA Ringshot Competition is TRENTON MCCLELLAND!” The sound of the audience blared so loudly that Trenton pressed his hands up against his ears to dampen the pain from the exploding decibles. Sonya gave him a big hug as Clay and Mark slapped him heartily on the back.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> It took Trenton nearly ten minutes to make it to the stairs leading up to the stage. Nearly half the audience had formed a congratulatory greeting circle that walked slowly around him, guiding him and saying words he couldn't hear. Between the shock of winning and the noise that four hundred voices make when all trying to talk at once, all he was focused on was climbing the stairs.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The crowd began to swarm the stage. Flashes from cameras were going off like a miniature lightning storm down below where Trenton stood. He only then realized that there were two news vans in the parking lot behind him. KTVZ and KOHD had cameras in the audience filming the nights events. Trenton turned away from the crowd to come face to face with Charles Fulman.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> The two shook hands and Charles said something that was lost in the frenzied voices floating up from the crowd. Trenton watched as Charles faced the crowd and was able to bring a hush down upon everyone simply by raising his hands. He addressed the crowd for the last time of the day.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Ladies and gentlemen, how about one more round of applause for Trenton McClelland.” Trenton was starting to get sick of the noise, but it only continued briefly. “I am very proud to present you with this check for a grand total of twenty-six thousand, two hundred thirty-five dollars for your perfect shot in the AFA's very first Ringshot Tournament.” Before Charles handed Trenton the big novelty check, he leaned in and said, “Don't forget what I told you earlier, Brenda Gotts will have the real check for you before you leave.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Another electrical storm burst through the crowd as Charles Fulman signed and handed over the check to Trenton. He could not believe that he had just won. The truth of it still had yet to sink in. Trenton had never won this much money at a tournament before. Stunned, he waved out to the crowd for a few moments before making his way off the stage.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he was rejoined with Sonya, Clay, and Mark. Before he'd had anytime to talk with them, however, he was accosted by a voracious crowd comprised of a few reporters and many well-wishers. Both local television news networks and a few of the area newspapers asked him question after question for nearly half an hour before he was able to break free.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Trenton carted the large cardboard check over the trailer, Clay had taken it upon himself to store away the bow and quiver. Trenton could see that a woman was standing next to the table, apparently waiting for their inevitable return. As they got closer, the light fell upon the heavy-set figure of Brenda Gotts.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> She was wearing a very large grin, and as Trenton approached her to shake hands, he noticed she had bright red lipstick smeared across her yellowing front teeth. She wore a blue dress that was easily four sizes too small for her wide frame, and it shimmerd like oil stained concrete after a rain. The effect was nauseating, but Trenton knew why she was there.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Good evening, Mr. McClelland, and congratulations,” she said. “I have your actual check here, less taxes of course. On behalf of the AFA, I would like to award it to you along with one more item.” She turned around and leaned over the table to grab something that was hidden from view. A moment later, she had turned around with one of Trenton's arrows. “Your winning shaft, Trenton.”</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> He took the arrow from her and stared at it with wonder. The night still had not seemed real to him. It was like watching someone else's life taking place. He looked down at the check and saw that Uncle Sam was, in fact, the greedy bastard Trenton always thought him to be. Of the twenty-six thousand two hundred thirty-five dollars that he had won, there on the check was nineteen thousand eight hundred sixty-three of them.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Still, his complaints lay unspoken, because he was certain, any minute, someone would come up and say that they had made a mistake. But no one came, and soon, Brenda Gotts had disappeared off into the crowd that was leaving Shevlin Park for the night. The main event was tomorrow, and people wanted to get some sleep before having to show at ten in the morning.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Clay and Sonya were sitting in two of the three chairs that were set up outside the trailer. Mark had just stowed the last table and grabbed the work stool from inside. Trenton took the last remaining seat and grabbed his pack of cigarettes. He pulled one of the seven remaining cigarettes and lit it.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> “Open it up and pick one,” Sonya said to Trenton, motioning towards the red cooler. Trenton slid open the lid and inside were six of Silver Moon Brewery's 22 oz bottles. Trenton surveyed the three different options. There were two of each; Hound's Tooth Amber, Badlands Bitter, and Snake Bite Porter. Trenton settled on a Hound's Tooth Amber.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Using his lighter for leverage, he popped off the bottle cap and took a pull off of the perfectly rounded beer, which wasn't too heavy, nor was it too bitter. It had a rush of sweetness that arrived at just the last moment and was still icy cold, though the ice in the cooler was nearly all melted. Trenton grabbed for the porter for his second bottle and was content with the fact it would be his last illegally consumed alcoholic beverage.</b></span></div><div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> Sunday, September 13<sup>th</sup> was Trenton McClelland's twenty-first birthday.</b></span></div><span style="font-family: Aparajita,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> </b></span></span></div>Timothy J. Tolerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04956534989280058816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313887818191328580.post-59250903092844807712011-04-17T11:37:00.000-07:002011-04-17T11:37:43.148-07:00Author's NoteThis story has been a long time in the making. Due to recent local events, I am having to reconsider the contents of chapter seven. In the meantime, I am allowing you the glimpse of the introduction. The body of the work is underway, and while the end game of the story is still a small speck on the horizon, each day forward brings us closer to Lo Sangue. In three days time from the posting of this note, day one of Lo Roden Bogen will be officially available to read here. To those of you who are here from the start, I thank you. I know that it has taken a long time to get only so far, but know that as time marches, so too does our ability to evolve and mature. While this book is not yet complete, know as well, that the first book is meant to be one of five. There will also be two side books related to the series, though not directly related to the story. I appreciate the enthusiasm in those of you who have shown interest from before they've even read anything. Thank you so much. It means the world to someone who creates their own. Dreda deoa on lo qulap.Timothy J. Tolerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04956534989280058816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313887818191328580.post-34214988435793533872011-04-13T15:36:00.000-07:002011-04-13T15:36:05.610-07:00About the AuthorTimothy J. Toler lives in Central Oregon with his girlfriend. Aside from writing a book, he is a champion slam poet, a rapper/singer/songwriter, as well as a visual artist and maker of fine peanut butter fudge. He and his girlfriend have two dogs, and two cats.Timothy J. Tolerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04956534989280058816noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313887818191328580.post-38380242965880613742011-04-09T00:17:00.000-07:002011-04-09T09:52:31.830-07:00Author Photo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Z2nATwOjGefN0N3VQ79ewuORinAah-092P6YfI-ysGtQOZYhO7x0uaa4B9HLxpvpl3k6qOMCeh1k6KAQhRoEcUwRSg4zw4416Dy8FeufhmDa2GM0rfP1YyskifaCnFJ87WTaMgm8qAw/s1600/Author+Self+Portrait.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Z2nATwOjGefN0N3VQ79ewuORinAah-092P6YfI-ysGtQOZYhO7x0uaa4B9HLxpvpl3k6qOMCeh1k6KAQhRoEcUwRSg4zw4416Dy8FeufhmDa2GM0rfP1YyskifaCnFJ87WTaMgm8qAw/s320/Author+Self+Portrait.png" width="320" /></a></div>Timothy J. Tolerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04956534989280058816noreply@blogger.com1