Bartholomew “Barty” Butterfield, a self-proclaimed Zen archer of questionable skill, stood poised at the archery range. His bright orange headband, adorned with a single, slightly askew feather, bobbed with each deep breath. He’d spent the last hour muttering about “finding the arrow’s true essence” and “banishing the ego-demon of poor aim.”
“Alright, Barty,” he whispered to himself, adjusting his ridiculously oversized spectacles. “Time to conquer the target…and my inner demons. Primarily, the demon of consistently missing the target by at least five feet.”
He nocked an arrow, closed his eyes, and took a dramatic, almost comically long breath. A small bird chirped nearby, completely unfazed by his intense concentration. He released the arrow with a dramatic *whoosh*.
It sailed gracefully… towards a nearby picnic basket.
A woman with a rather stern expression emerged from behind the picnic blanket. “Excuse me,” she said, a note of frosty suspicion in her voice. “Was that… intentional?”
Barty, eyes still closed, declared, “The arrow has found its true path! It’s seeking union with the… uh… the culinary arts!” He opened his eyes, blinking in confusion. “Wait, where’s the target?”
The woman pointed to a large, clearly visible target a few yards away, riddled with holes… none of which were anywhere near the bullseye.
Barty examined the arrow, now embedded in a sausage roll. “Ah, yes,” he said with a nod of sage-like understanding. “I see now. My ego wanted the bullseye, but my arrow… my arrow craved sausage.” He winked. “It’s all about the journey, you see.”
