I throw the axe and miss the bullseye.
The blade thuds against the hardwood, bounces sideways, then lands with a loud clank.
My eyes trace the slits in the target, counting the times people have missed.
I drag the air in slow through my nostrils, and a whispered sigh escapes my lips.
Missing has never felt neutral to me.
I reposition my feet behind the yellow line, riaise my arm, and release the axe.
Thud. Clank.
Accuracy is harder than it looks.
Keeping score of myself is heavier than the 1 lb axe, and it has never improved my aim.
May 8
May 8, 2026 at 11:23 AM UTC
I throw the axe and miss the bullseye.
The blade thuds against the hardwood, bounces sideways, then lands with a loud clank.
My eyes trace the slits in the target, counting the times people have missed.
I drag the air in slow through my nostrils, and a whispered sigh escapes my lips.
Missing has never felt neutral to me.
I reposition my feet behind the yellow line, riaise my arm, and release the axe.
Thud. Clank.
Accuracy is harder than it looks.
Keeping score of myself is heavier than the 1 lb axe, and it has never improved my aim.