The Archer
As an officer of the law, I was trained to read between the lines. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” I said. The man behind the empty desk nodded. “Yes, Rusty, I am. We’d like you to join MI6.” I reared up, gawping. A sugar cube landed on my tongue. “All this will have to go though,” said the man, tugging at my head gear. “When those bullets come flying across the dusty low mountains at a 45 degree angle, I want you catching them in your teeth. Understood?”
I’m a Sagittarius which means I like the “general feel of things” and have a propensity towards gambling. I rarely turn down the offer of an adventure.
My new identity was issued with immediate effect. A traditional gentlemen’s barber crafted my hair into a feathering of innocuous layers and reluctantly untwined the plait in my tail, swishing it into the air as if he was releasing a flock of moth-eaten ravens. Fake prints were glued to my fingers, and I was buttoned into a crisp, tailor made white shirt with an open collar. My passport and library membership card were destroyed before my now green eyes. I was strongly advised to grow a beard.
My brief is to blend in. Occasionally, I miss utilising my intimidating height at football matches and dressing in a showy red coat for Royal parades, but on the whole, I’ve adjusted well to being undercover. Despite living a life of intrigue and deception, I remain ardent and transparent in love. My heart spills open at the slightest twist.
At night I stare out from my vantage point in the heavens, where dense clusters of fairy lights are draped around my silhouette, and my aim points ever upwards. I am at my most visible in summer, when the warm evenings spread across the Northern Hemisphere, and the late night open air swimmers take to the rivers and seas.
