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composition of suspense
how suspense handled across different genres
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Nate reached the yawning mouth of trees he spotted on his hike two days earlier. An orange marker was in his pocket to mark rocks and trees that would help keep him from getting lost. In another pocket he carried the bear repellant he took from a shelf on his grandparents' back porch. He had sprayed himself with OFF and tucked his pants legs into a pair of his granddad's work boots. He came better prepared for the wild than on his first outing. But after nearly an hour of searching, he'd seen nothing that resembled a cemetery. The woods were bigger and more confusing than he had expected. Even with marking his route, he had spent the first ten minutes walking in a circle. He vowed next time to use a real compass and avoid wasting time determining direction. At the bottom of a woodsy slope, he was debating whether or not it needed climbing when the hum of an engine came through the old growth of trees. Nate took a few steps up the slope for a better look. The noise seemed to come from no particular place. As soon as he thought he had a lock on the location, the sound veered away in another direction. But it kept getting louder, which meant it had to be getting closer. This part of the woods had undergrowth thick enough and tall enough to hide whatever made the noise on the hill. But definitely, it sounded like it was blazing a path toward him. The noise grew louder. Nate could hear the swoosh of branches and the snap of limbs breaking. Seconds later, a swift movement rushed across just a few yards up the hill. It burrowed through a thicket of large ferns and wild hedges. Nate jumped out of its path as it skidded out of control. It flipped on its side and slammed into a downed log about twenty feet away. What the heck? ... ... middle of paper ... ..."Thanks." Nate looked to the way they had come. "So, no practice today. We better get you back up the hill." "Okay, you can call me when you're ready for a lesson. You got something to take down a number on?" "I got a marker. Write your number on this can." Billy took the marker and the can of repellent and smiled as he wrote. "You know, this here spray won't work against an angry bear. It's fine for spraying bears that wanders into your yard, but the best way to handle a bear in the wild is to keep your distant from 'em." "I'll remember that," Nate said, taking back the can and marker. "You can call me if you want. Do your parents have my grandparents' number?" "Yeah, I'll call ya'." He tilted his head like he had reached a conclusion. "I'll keep your secret 'cause we're buddies now, okay?" "Yeah, we're buddies," Nate agreed. "Let's get you home."
sound…which stirred the very river in its deeps! A rising sheet of water curved over him, blinded him, strangled him! The cannon had taken a hand in the game. As he shook his head free from the commotion of the smitten water he heard the deflected shot humming through the air ahead, and in an instant it was cracking and smashing the branches in the forest beyond.
The big tree loomed bigger and closer, and as they bore down on it he thought: ‘It’s waiting for us, it seems to know.’ But suddenly his wife’s face, with its monstrous lineaments, thrust itself between him and his goal, and he made an instinctive movement to brush it aside. The sled swerved in response, but he righted it again and drove down on the black projecting mass. There was a last instant when the air shot past him like millions of fiery wires, and then elm…’Oh, Matt, I thought we’d fetched it,’ he moaned; and far off, up the hill, he heard the sorrel whinny and thought: ‘I ought to be getting him his feed… (Wharton,
From the cover of the juniper trees Duvall watched the wranglers move a steady string of cattle in and out of the corral. If he wanted to get closer he could, but for now, he’d bide his time. In front of him, twin boulders provided the perfect cover. They were tightly wedged, but there was enough room to still slip his rifle barrel between them, make his shot, and leave unnoticed. He would have to walk a ways. To avoid the chance of someone stumbling upon him, he’d left his horse far outside the canyon.
He slouched into his chair as he recalled his experiences in the woods. He is a short, heavy built man, hands and body worn from years of work. His gray hair expressed wisdom and knowledge of the woods and hunting. He remembered when his passion sparked and took life, nearly five decades ago.
I walk along the narrow logging road, scuffing my feet in the four inch dust. I am delighted to see my dad's big, green skidder, a machine used to drag logs from the woods to the road, up ahead, hopping over stump after stump. I scan the small, freshly-cut patch of aspen trees, lying in the luscious bed of fallen leaves. In his skidder, my dad carefully backs up to the butts of the trees and grabs them up in one skillful sweep of the giant grapple. The huge machine gently speeds to a constant yet jolting pace, dragging the neat bundle of trees behind it. I smile as I watch the tiny green leaves bounce every which way in conjunction with one another. Prancing anxiously behind the dancing leaves are three rather massive elk, fighting to get one more mouthful of the leaves, a rare delicacy for them. I watch for a moment and continue on my way.
Soon we got into what I like to call, “war ground” because it looks like a war just happened at this very spot with trees knocked over and nothing living. Later into the trail, we found a dead tree that fell over, but was still in the air.
Her spry, Timberland-clad foot planted itself upon a jagged boulder, motionless, until her calf muscles tightened and catapulted her small frame into the next stride. Then Sara's dance continued, her feet playing effortlessly with the difficult terrain. As her foot lifted from the ground, compressed mint-colored lichen would spring back into position, only to be crushed by my immense boot, struggling to step where hers had been. My eyes fixated on the forest floor, as fallen trees, swollen roots, and unsteady rocks posed constant threats for my exhausted body. Without glancing up I knew what was ahead: the same dense, impenetrable green that had surrounded us for hours. My throat prickled with unfathomable thirst, as my long-empty Nalgene bottle slapped mockingly at my side. Gnarled branches snared at my clothes and tore at my hair, and I blindly hurled myself after Sara. The portage had become a battle, and the ominously darkening sky raised the potential for casualties. Gritting my teeth with gumption, I refused to stop; I would march on until I could no longer stand.
“Yeah, thanks dude.” I pushed him out of the room. I was so looking forward to a real breakfast that I slip down the banister railing instead of using the stairs.
Nate trudged up the incline through thick underbrush. The wild growth looked cool from the house, but hiking in them became a chore. The sound of a creek that ran parallel to the road acted as his compact. He couldn't always see the creek, but the gurgling shallow water rushing across the rock bottom would help him find his way back to the farm.
...the wood for movement, looking for the slightest movement that will indicate the presence of some animal, maybe a deer walking through the woods feeding, or maybe a squirrel on its never-ending hunt for food. At 8:45 I get up and walk to my brother; the cold weather has found its way into my body through my many layers of clothes. I walk ever so silently hoping to find a deer over the hill, or in some alders eating. I see nothing but when I get to my brother he tells me I pushed five deer right past him.
As he trod through a deep bank of snow, a high-pitched squeaking sound met his ears, and he stopped short. He listened carefully, and the odd sound came again,
Jerry traveled a long distance and was beginning to feel tired. He decided to find shelter away from the other animals living in the rainforest for the night. After a well needed rest, Jerry was ready for another day of adventure. He packed his bag and set off.
As I began to walk this trail, I began to recollect the days of when I was a kid playing in the woods, the birds chirping and the squirrels running free. The trees interlocking each other as if I am walking through a tunnel with the smell of fresh pine and a hint of oak all around me; a hint of sunshine every now and then is gleaming down on the beat path. This path is not like your ordinary path, it has been used quite some time, as if hundreds of soldiers have marched this very path.
As the bushes and brush grew more solid I began to ponder. Will I make it through this forest tonight or will I be taken in by the thick of the mystery? Sounds from sluggish foot steps caused a vibration around me that lead me to stop in my place and listen closely. Could this forest be haunted or was I just over exaggerating? I started to get very nervous by this time. “It will be just fine,” I told myself. I am just imagining things. I continued my journey through the forest but negative thoughts were running through my l...
Now, my family could never really be considered in the Grizzly Addams-class with respect to the outdoors. That is to say, our adventures to the wilderness always included at least one tent, three weeks’ supply of food (for a week-long trip), a gas barbecue, radios, bicycles, and a moped, and one year we even took a small house-trailer with a privy and a sink. Purists and naturalists would call it “car camping” with a derisive snort, but this was about as close to nature as my family was going to get, so I took it as a blessing rather than a curse.