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You are currently reading a thread in /lit/ - Literature

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Obviously practice yields better product, but I'm curious how well I did with this one.

It's shit.
Now give me a few minutes to read it
>You need permission
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>link sharing is ON
gg, Google

The aged man's cherry face hid behind a thick balaclava, with only tired eyes being visible, peering over a wintery field.

Daylight was still breaking out; warm rays piercing snow and foliage in the large pines. The long, inky fingers of night were being batted away by shafts from the Sun. The cold air snuck into the crevices of the man camouflaged garb, leaving a familiar ache in his bones. To his side was his faithful shotgun, received as a gift, and from a time before his prime. Resting besides the man's fragile frame was also a sack with the name "HARV" crudely embroidered across its front, containing a filled canteen, compass, rations for the day, binoculars, additional slugs for the firearm, and a Kansas Deer Tag. Today was the last day of the hunt. The final day of the legal hunt, at least. The man had not been known to partake in the hunt of days and game restricted by the law, and he would make no exception after today.

The carefully observed field had a calming stillness. Trees lay bare, alongside scattered potentially alarming crisped leaves. The coarse wind aided the biting cold air in making the man as miserable as possible. The man was wrapped in a large dark green coat on top of overalls and thick wool sweats before that. He peered into the emerging sunrise for tracks and evidence of local prey. He panned his view across the field, in hopes to find any movement. The thick layers of cloth only helped so much in stopping the restless quakings from the rigid cold.
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Waiting for something to fill the tag left time for the hunter’s mind to wander in on itself. He cracked his knuckles within thick fabric gloves, a gift from his late brother. His long beard, as white as the snow surrounding him, was hidden in a gray scarf pockmarked by tiny holes from being stretched and pulled during countless aching freezes. This will be my last hunt. He idly thought to himself. His body could not withstand another winter. He must make this count.

The hunter gazed a gazely stare. He stared into the forest, but the forest did not stare back. The only action he witnessed was the gentle flow of the occasional leaf kicked up by the wind. The man nestled in the branches of a downed tree he had found the summer before. This’ll be it. Where my final attempt and success will be made. Before the man was a vast and empty field, which he had known to be a sort of hotspot for wandering game. Naturally clear of trees meant there were few obstructions between the man and his inevitable prey. The hunter could not be finicky of his prey. The first beast he will see will be the last one he shall ever gracefully down. Choosing is for those rich in youth. Alas, I am with ache, age, and calamity.

The light, stillness in the crisp air conflicted with the heaviness of his mind. Although it had turned to morning, the Sun could not be enough to warm him to comfort. The hunter had not seen any more than excited skips of passing squirrels. The idea of his view being equally inactive hadn't dawned on his ambitious hopes. In all eagerness, he remained enthusiastic to finding anything to bring home. His resting posture in the branches made him difficult to spot, and he had taken the correct procedures to remain scentless.

The warming noon air emerged, calming the man’s shivering and pains. Still no sights or sounds of life beyond his own staggered wheezing. The hours he spent waiting to end a life reflected the years he spent waiting for . A deathly determination surround his hidden presence, and clouded his aged mind. He knew deep inside he was destined for a successful final hunt. The wind sat just right. He was cautiously hidden. He anticipated his accomplishments before they could be reasonably predicted. There is no reason at all for me to return empty handed. I must make this count.
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The final day of the hunt entered a frustrating afternoon. The deer in the area are known to be restless here. Where'd they all go?

“Where did I all go,” he whispered so softly, and so hurt he had not noticed.
The day of the hunt would reach its legal end soon after the sun began to cast off into the dark. The hunter approximated that he had around four hours remaining to claim his prize. This would have to be his final attempt to make a meaningful mark in the last field of activity his creeping body could do anything in.

His mind dreamed of his inevitable triumph. A young man with his future and a large, beautiful deer directly ahead of him. The rush of life and love and hope cracked through is promising bones before a long line of future achievements. Certain to be someone. Impended to inherit his own world.

Another hour passed, and the cold returned, as did the reality of being him. A slice of night was showing her face, earlier than anticipated. The lifeless terrain remain constant. Only his own thoughts roamed the field. In the wilderness expanse, he was alone. He only withstood these hardships for he knew of his nearing trophy.

An hour remained. It is now I must succeed. It is now I must accept me. The day lost its day over his Earth, and night began to break. Soon it would be too late for success. He didn't need a deer for a meal. He didn't need another trophy to boast. He need this success for himself. This wasn't about nature. This isn't about the hunt. This was about him.

The need for prey rushed over him in a mad, panicked sweat. The cold in the air made his sweat freeze him even further. The idea of a potentially losing in his final attempt swept over him. In an instant he was completely beside himself. The visions of his success had become a stillborn dream. The hunt was over. The hunter peered over the field for any sign of life. The same nothingness that had followed him all those years continued to stare back directly at him. He opened his sack. He rummaged through to find the unused deer tag. His very being seemed to let go of a hope. While in contemplation of his failures, the hunter let go of what made him him.
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He stored the rest of his items in his sack. He tossed and turned into an upright position in which he could pick himself up from. After a minor painful struggle, he was on his own two feet. He gazed one last time into the forested void. He let go of his struggles. He turned toward the direction of his cabin and began his hike. What he left behind was a reminder of who he felt he had to be. But now, he decided, he would continue to live, not for a hunt, but for him.
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If it's shit, the cool.
If it's not, then great.
Any feedback is appreciated. Thank you for reading.
what's this black thread about?
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