killer arrow

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One cold Christmas my mother gave my brother a professional hunter’s bow and razor-tipped arrows.
He was nine and had never hunted.  I was seven.
I was standing in the snow covered front yard watching Dave try to pull the bow string back, and his first shot went straight up into the air until we couldn’t see it.
Dave dropped the bow and yelled, “Run!”
We ran in circles for several seconds waiting for the arrow to hit us in the head.

The wind was blowing that day and the arrow never came down. Dave said it got stuck in a cloud. 
I really just wanted to go back inside and eat another sweet roll.

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