The Rites of Passages

Beads of sweat roll down the young savages arms, his back, and his brow. Every sinew in his perfectly still body burn under the endless strain. He could no longer tell if his two fingers' grasp of the end of the arrow was steadfast or a mere second away from slipping. A droplet of perspiration transfers from his finger and slides quickly down the gut of his bow. His eyelids narrow as he focuses on the grey beast as it finally grazes the evergreen marking the area within grasp of his bow. Intending to pull the arrow a slight more taught, the young savage mistakenly lets loose the bolt. Sure of his miss, he grapples for another arrow from his quiver. He blindly sends another bow in the general direction of his prey, hoping against hope to down the beast with a single shot. The bolt struck with a thud. The young savage finally looks to his prey. There it lay dying with two feathered sticks jutting at different angles from its heaving body. The young savage hangs his head and lets loose a sharp sigh, his target befouled and insufficient for the sacrifice.

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