Skye Fulcher

SKYE FULCHER is a writer living in Canterbury. She trained to be a pastry chef but got tired of all her work getting eaten so she writes stories instead. Her writing is inspired by art, myth, music, films, folklore and (probably) something she found in a local charity shop. Currently she is working on a collection of short stories and illustrated zines.

So, you take this arrow, anchor it to your bow and you just…shoot! The curly haired man said, releasing it through the air, aimed squarely at a woman on the tour boat. They watched as a smile broke on her face and her head turned, drawn to the man with a backpack besides her.

See? He said. That’s all there is too it, but make sure you’re not seen. Things get messy otherwise, let me tell you. I don’t have the energy to do it all myself every year, but you can practice on the animals if you’re nervous. Plenty of pigeons about.

Fearne stood under the old timber walkway and looked out to the Thames. She held the cold arrows between her fingers, admired the swirling Baroque pattern that crawled up the limb of the bow. It seemed dangerous, this kind of job, especially for a woman, but the pay was good and Mr Valentine seemed decent. She was almost four months behind on the rent, the soles of her good shoes were going and the fridge held nothing but a can of moulding coconut milk and a slither of old cheese. This would do for the time being she decided.

The day melted away in a sweet, loving haze. She thought she was making the world a better place; dousing the streets of London with Love. She was liberal with it too, occasionally firing two if one didn’t do the trick, for some seemed so hardened by life not to be affected by one. She broke up fights with her arrows, watched the crowd laugh and disperse. Sometimes her arrows made people drop everything they were doing. Taxi drivers left their passengers stranded, a woman abandoned a half-cooked dinner. Other times it wasn’t so drastic as Fearne came to believe that she didn’t make people love but moved them to love, renewed what was there already. Couples clasped hands tighter and looked at each other, held their gazes just that little bit longer than usual.

She lit up dingy Underground stations with candlelight, softening work worn faces. She travelled far across the city, going along every tube line at one point or another in her mission. She came to imagine that the whole city had a pulse: a huge, heavy heart beating, crying out for love. The map of the Tube a network of veins moving her closer to its central organ.

But she made a mistake and was careless as day grew to dusk. It was her last arrow too, aimed at a man travelling alone looking for a hotel. He gasped as it struck him in the chest and his suitcase toppled to the pavement. Warmth ran through his body in waves, rippling and trickling up his spine and down to his toes, until he looked around, turned to see Fearne’s face peeking out behind the phone box.

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