Run. That was the single thought that consumed my exhausted mind. I had to run, to keep moving, or else all would be lost. My feet pounded against the rugged, African earth and the wind lashed out at my bare skin. Sweat streaked down my sweating forehead, my muscles scorched and every bone in my body pleaded with me to stop, to slow down. But I couldn’t. I knew what was at stake. Branches ripped at my skin as I evaded the trees. I glanced back at the hunter and caught a glimpse of white skin and dark, frigid eyes vacant of any sensitivity. I shifted my focus back to the coiling trees and shrubs that lay ahead of me, but it was too late. The tree root appeared out of nowhere, entangling itself with my leg. My head smacked the floor with a hefty thud. …show more content…
The hunter was quickly approaching. It was only a matter of seconds before he would be on top of me. I tried to rip the tree roots off my leg. Thorns penetrated my hands but I felt no pain, all I could think about was the hunter with his rope in hand, prepared to abduct me, tie me up, and take me away from everything I had ever knew or loved. I nearly gave up, when at last, I managed to free my now badly injured leg from the roots and rush to my feet, only for a rough hand to shove me back on the ground. “Hey Levi, I’ve got another one over here!” the man yelled, his hand still tightly grasping my shoulder. I mustered all my strength, kicking at the man, viciously trying to claw him anywhere I could, but failed miserably to withdrawal from his iron grip. “He’s a fighter.” the white man said to another person, who was approaching through the brush. “Shut him up.” the man spoke. I got a glimpse of dark skin and a red and blue sash draped across his chest, the colors of my tribe. "Traitor," I thought with anger and a sense of betrayal. “Knock him out!” the white man shouted once
Foremost, we need to examine the hunter from his psychological progression from his past. In the story, his views are often overshadowed by the narrater or by our learned emotion to see the story as a picture. He states that he has emotional baggage from a previous relationship (Houston, MLM, 805) and tries to explain how much she hurt him. That would bring any of us to a point of building a sort of emotional wall. From this the narrorater begins to build a sort of case against him with her friends instead of looking and progressing him past that point of rejection from his past girlfriend.
We were all with him. He wasn’t going to do this alone. It was more of a mental fight between us. He tried to seem bigger and stronger, but I simply imitated him, to prove that I as well am big and strong. Then one of the men grabbed me by the collar, and said that he was going to send us home.
Gottlieb observes his men from a distance, holding on tightly to his sword. He grips it tightly, feeling a presence lurking behind him, and turns with his maroon eyes aflame, knocking an unknown man to the ground. “Who are you!” he yells, climbing on top of him.
When his unrelenting arm grew tired, he stopped and asked if I was still insisted I was free man. I did insist upon it, and then the blows were renewed, faster and more energetically, if possible, than
... I wanted to leave but I wanted also to speak and I was afraid they’d snatch me down(P. 306 ). He noticed something wrong when he gave a speech in front of the white people. I spoke automatically and with such favor that I did not realize that the men were still talking and laughing until my dry mouth, filling up with blood from the cut, almost strangled me(P. 305 ). Conversely, when he was given a prize from a white man, he forgot what he realized something wrong. I was so moved that I could hardly express my thanks. A rope of bloody saliva forming a shape like an undiscovered continent drooled upon the leather and I wiped it quickly away (P. 306).
‘Thank you, I’m a hunter, not a murderer’” (Connell, 70). Richard Connell’s short story “The Most Dangerous Game”, portrays a hunter, one who feels no pity for the ones he hunts, who is suddenly in their shoes. He becomes the huntee when he meets a psychopathic murderer, and declines to hunt with him. However, he will not be let off the hook that easily. He gets three days to hide from his hunter, and if he’s discovered, he loses the “game”. It’s a game of cat and mouse, where at times the hunter will be underneath his prey, but with a gun in the hunter’s hand, the prey can’t retaliate. In “The Most Dangerous Game”, Richard Connell uses setting, characterization, and conflict in order to convey an anxious, haunting mood.
My breath was heavy as I was sprinting from them. I could hear them on my tail. But the only this that was racing through my mind was “I have the book.”
Running. Running has provided me with so many opportunities. I have met so many new people and learned numerous life lessons. My life would be completely different if I had not had these invaluable experiences.
His trembling body strengthened; his heart soared in the sky, his darkened soul stood flaming with the fire in his eye. And so he worked relentlessly; he struggled and he strained. His conscience whipped him mercilessly for every ounce he gained. He ran on legs like pistons; his muscled arms grew sore; He'd tell himself, "I have to" then ask himself, "What for?
The old man held his fury as long as he could. "He beats you!" he shouted. "And you worry about where he's going to graze his calves!"
Sports are not for everyone. I tried a variety of sports throughout my childhood but I was never really athlete material. I am as slow as a turtle and I have little to no hand-eye coordination, but I gave each sport a try. It was truly a shock when I decided to run cross-country since I had no speed whatsoever.
“Suddenly the young hunter saw the woman, with her dress above her waist, her bare legs sprayed wide apart. He had never seen a woman like that before. He ran quickly to her side and stared down at her belly, quite frightened to touch. There, lying beneath the woman's legs, was the body of a small, damp, pink animal, attached only by something that looked like a rope......”
Pulling his wings apart, he gave me a full view of his countenance. When he turned toward me, my eyes stung from his brightness and a violent gust of wind encircling him whipped back my hair. The entity wore a long dark cerulean trench coat adorned with Hebrew inscriptions that matched his eyes that twinkled like stars in the night
leaving a bruise I would feel for days after. I lunged at the contratista, fists raised. Díaz paled. Backing away, he
OUCH! My leg crippled with pain. I tried to shuffle my way to the window, but it was excruciating. As my senses kicked back in, I felt pains shooting up and down my body. Peering down at my hands I screamed. My hands were covered in cold, congealed blood.