Archery Competition

I write narratives.

The Archery competition is finally beginning. The rumbustious cheers of the crowd pervade the atmosphere, the sounds of their excitement amplified within the stadium. There is applause and impatient murmurings amongst the crowd. Only some notice the boy who sits near the arena, disquietened and dazed, staring at his archery equipment with great intent.

Michael stares at the bow and arrow in his hand, an inscrutable expression on his face. He wipes his damp hands on the rugged fabric of his trousers perfunctorily, partially listening in on the announcer's comments. He scans his surroundings – He notices his competitors reveal no flaw or hint of their nervousness as they perform their shots, a stark contrast to the slight tremble in Michael's hands and the heaving of his chest.

Exhaling deeply, Michael glances over to the man poised beside him. The man offers a wide smile, although betrayed by the worry blatant from within his eyes. Twice Michael has looked over to his coach and only now does he realise he is not alone in his anxiety.

"Just try to relax," His coach advises whilst placing a hand on Michael's shoulder. It should be comforting, but Michael only feels the weight of a man's hopes on him.

He sighs. Furrowing his eyebrows, Michael shuts his eyes tightly.

"When you're ready, number 15."

Michael is incapable of concentration. Everything around him distracts him and robs him of his serenity; He closes his eyes and only sees the chaotic crowd and people racing in circles, relaying orders. He only hears the unnerving, thundering loudness of the spectators' chatters, only hears desperate yells and exclamations.

He lets his eyes rake over