A cruel mess

Lyons drew an arrow from the quiver and stood poised. His full attention on the target circle. He realised his grip and the arrow pierced through the air. It made a perfect hit with the bullseye.

With his eyes still fixed on the target circle, he slipped out another arrow, positioned it against the bow string, and pulled taut. He let go, getting the same result.

The afternoon sun was at its peak. Hot rays burned his neck, but that was the least of Lyons' problems. He took of his baseball hat, and raked his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. Having let in some air to his scalp, he repositioned the hat.

He moved to the target circle and began taking out the arrows. He'd made three perfect hits. And now, while his skin was beginning to cry out in agony, he was going to spend the next ten minutes or so archering. He was going to shoot out his frustration, his indignation and overall discontentment with the world. Footsteps drew close. Lyons didn't bother to inquire.

"Excuse me, si