Oregon summer: sun like warmed honey dripping, sweet bees humming, and students lying in drying grass with straw-blond hair like feathers strewn around.
“Your turn Em!”
“If you say so.” Thunk! Though cross-bows weren’t her scene.
“Doesn’t time fly like an arrow?” said Tray, remembering translations from their English class that day. Then clouds hid the sun, moved away, drifted past while friendships grew like Oregon trees and Emily’s child was born.
Plastic arrows with red sucker tips, orange guns, scholarships and war.
The arrow’s path was tortuous. Tray’s son bled dark on foreign soil and time pierced Emily’s heart.