Ed says his "hands" are by his "sides […]; I stood with the fog eating me alive" (94). The speaker of the poem says, "My hands burn away at my sides" (12). This could just be a coincidence, but the two characters to be standing in the same stance is highly unlikely. The theme of both poem and novel is that a man is trying to accomplish hunting for his pride and the respect of his friends. Ed proves he is hunting for pride and for the respect of his friends when he says, "I might as well make some show of doing what I said I had come for" and " All I had really wanted was to stay away a reasonable length of time, long enough for the others to wake and find me gone […].
The afternoon sun shined down Ernest's back as he stood on his toes to get a look over the trench wall. All of the men had been warned not to look over, despite the natural inclination to do so. Even when there was no attack at the moment, a random sniper shot could bring death to a soldier on his first day of service. “Johnson!” Ernest quickly lowered back down into the trench. He turned to the sergeant behind him.
All night he had been sitting there in the damp hoping that he would get a glimpse of the mysterious person in black that the village people knew so little yet talked so much about. But as in their stories the mist came and he stood little chance of seeing the figure but he remained there just in case it returned. As soon as it was light enough he decided to make his way down the bank and inspect the old and supposedly unused track. It took him a good fifteen minutes to make his way down the steep sides trying not to slip but when he reached the bottom he gave a great sigh of relief. He picked his way along until he reached the tunnel mouth, being careful not to trip on the uneven and uncared for sleepers that with many years of no use were now rotting.
Many lives had been lost around the Farne Island, there were countless submerged rocks and dangerous currents waiting to catch the unwary and carry them to a watery grave. But that was not what was commanding the attention of the men in the tavern. No it was Longstone lighthouse sitting upon the Farne Island that was so captivating. Tall and imposing it was a lifeline to those daring and foolhardy enough to try and navigate the dangerous waters surrounding the Island. The light was preserved by the three lighthouse keepers who lived on the island; they performed any necessary repairs and generally maintained the light.
This one was only young and looking at it Amon felt a little sad, the boy couldn't have been more than twelve years young. He looked in rough shape, thin with superficial cuts, as he struggled to make his way through the forest, black blood oozed from open wounds and his clothes in tatters, barely clinging to his small frame. He wouldn't last much longer, Amon mused, as it wandered closer to hi... ... middle of paper ... ...s body fed him until it was second nature. Climbing the tree once more he scanned the environment for other threats and when he found none he focused on the hotel. After a few minutes of nothing happening he decided it would be a better use of time to dispose of the body before it attracted even more unwanted attention.
He had a serious frown and thin, pursed lips with a protruding jaw. Whilst lying there in the rain he chain-smoked a cigarette, carefully putting the buts in his pocket to ensure no evidence was left, and watched the view below. Occasionally the man would look at his watch and slyly smile to himself, and then he would go back to watching the house. Every so often, when he was sure that no one was about, he lifted the rifle and sighted down to the front of the house slowly and patiently. The house that he was over-looking was dull and shabby.
The car startled him, but his lack of nerves led him to carry on. All to be heard was an owls hooting in a near by whistling tree. The waiting was endless, a single drop of rain trickled down his stern face, but for fear of being caught he never twitched. Two deafening roars of thunder echoed through the hills but torrential conditions didn't move him, his unblinking, hard, cold eyes where fixed on the house. Two years of planning was about to be over he picked up his box and limped down the hill to a lonely cottage.
~~~ The men sat quietly on board as they stared at their surroundings. Everyone on board knew about the dangers behind the highly dense trees and shrubs: the bloodstained ground hidden by the many lifeless bodies adorning it and the rifles of fallen soldiers. Although each tried to keep a strong façade, they were all nervous, not about their fate but about what they had left behind. What of their mothers? Would they spend endless nights staying up to listen to the radio?
It's silent in the fields, only a bird or two, maybe, to keep him company. It's so silent, his mind makes him think that there is something else there; he's basically going mad from the silence. He personifies the scythe, saying that it 'whispered'. You and I both know that that scythe, that any scythe, is an inanimate object, it can't talk. His imagination runs away with him.
They were pretty tight on cash, but if she was so intent on not wasting food why didn't she eat it. He was sitting at the foot of the abandoned tree house, drawing a dragon in the sand, when he suddenly felt the overwhelming need to go deeper into the woods. He knew he shouldn’t go. There were dangerous animals like wolves and bears in the woods, but he had to. Some hidden force was calling to him.