All standard disclaimers apply.

All characters in the following story are entirely fictional. And any resemblance to real people is entirely coincidental.

The author does not condone the actions in the story. A strict line must be maintained between fantasy and reality. It is morally neutral to fantasize or read about minors engaging in sexual activity, providing the fantasy or story is entirely fictional. In real life, adults and children should never engage in sexual activity under any circumstances.

In the real world, no one under the age of eighteen--or whatever the age of majority in your area happens to be--should be having sex. In the author's view, few people under the age of twenty-one are mature enough for sex.

If you are seriously considering having sex with a minor, please read no further. Instead, seek immediate help from a trained and licensed professional.

Remember to keep your fantasy life and your real life very separate!

This story may not be reproduced without the consent of the author.

The author may be contacted at: RaziHaze (at) Hushmail (dot) com.




"Lift your arm." The instructions were calm and deliberate. Mr. Groening was in his mid-40s, he had graying hair, and his body was supremely toned. He was a master bowman. "Try not to tilt your head--good. Good." He placed the tips of his fingers under Billy's outstretched upper arm and positioned it. "Keep both eyes open. Just like that." Mr. Groening continued adjusting the minutiae of the boy's stance before finally ordering that he should, "loose the arrow."

Billy released his grip on his bowstring, and the arrow flew across the range and toward a bullseye about twenty feet away. The arrow landed, sticking firmly into the target's edge, a reasonable distance from the center.

Billy smiled. "I hit the target!"

"Good," replied Mr. Groening. "Now, try again, and this time, try aiming a little more to your right."

A row of eight kids--boys and girls between the ages of ten and thirteen--were lined up each with their own bows and arrows aiming at their own bullseyes. At the end of the row stood Chance.

Chance Vanessa was eleven-and-a-half-years old. He was about four-and-a-half feet tall. His hair was short and dark, and his eyes were a bright hazel. He was small for his age, but his physique was already starting to show signs of definition thanks to his years of taking archery with Mr. Groening.

Chance was different from the other students in the archery class. First of all, he was a lefty. Second of all, he held his bow horizontally instead of vertically. Third of all, unlike his fellow students, Chance didn't spend any time aiming his arrow or perfecting his grip before pulling back on his bowstring. He would just lift his arms and let his arrow fly.

Mr. Groening gave the students in the class twenty arrows at a time. Except for Chance. Mr. Groening gave Chance fifty. Twenty arrows lasted about fifteen minutes for most students. Fifty arrows rarely lasted more than five minutes for Chance. Most students were lucky to hit within two rings of the bullseye twice during a lesson. Chance couldn't remember the last time his arrow landed outside the two inner circles of the target, and he often struck dead center.

Mr. Groening walked down the range and helped each child adjust his or her own stance. Like with Billy, he offered words of encouragement to all of his students.

When he reached Chance, Mr. Groening playfully swatted the boy's rear end and asked. "Did you miss any yet?"

Chance blushed and shook his head.

"How many bullseyes so far?" Mr. Groening asked.

"Twelve." Chance replied.

"Figures." Mr. Groaning chuckled softly. "Are you trying out to be in the competition?"

Chance shrugged.

"You should," Mr. Groening winked at Chance and started to walk off.

Chance blushed again, loosed another arrow, and struck the target two inches left of dead center. "Damnit!"


Chance stared out the car window, his eyes trained on the trees passing along the edge of the highway. He sighed heavily in the back seat, then he smiled contently.

Chance looked toward the front seat at his parents: his mother driving the car, and his father absently pressing buttons on his iPad in the passenger's seat.

Ten minutes into the car, Chance's father spoke up. "Did you have a good time in archery class today?"

"Yeah," continued Chance's mother. "How was Mr. Groening?"

Chance's face turned red, and he began twiddling his thumbs. "Um . . . ." the boy bit his lower lip. "Mom, Dad . . . ."

"Yes, sweetie?" Chance's mother began, not turning her head from the road in front of her.

"What is it, bud?" Chance's father echoed, not lifting his eyes from the iPad.

"I--I . . . ." Chance gulped and turned his head toward the window momentarily. Another sigh. Chance at toward his parents once more. "I'm gay. I mean, I think I'm--." Gulp. "--I'm gay."

"Say that again?" said Mr. Vanessa, as he looked up from his iPad.

"I--never mind." Chance shut his mouth. His face further reddened.

"You're not gay." Mrs. Vanessa turned her head around to look at her son. "You're too young to know that. You're just confu--"


Chance saw black . . .

. . . His consciousness faded in-and-out . . . .


Chance's long-term memory seemed to flicker on-and-off for the next week. Only bits and pieces of what happened remained. Metal frames of cars collapsing in on him. Fluorescent lights on a hospital ceiling humming above him. Social workers talking to him. Two caskets descending into the ground at a funeral . . . .