Figurative Language Hatchet

From his height he could see not just the lake but across part of the forest, a green carpet, and it was full of life.

Hisses and blurks, small sounds, birds singing, hum of insects, splashes from the fish jumping—

GOING TO DIE,Brian thought. Going to die, gonna die, gonna die—his whole brain screamed it in the sudden silence.

Divorce. Secrets. No, not secrets so much as just the Secret. What he knew and had not told anybody, what he knew about his mother that had caused the divorce, what he knew, what he knew—the Secret. Divorce. The Secret.

He ripped at it until it released and somehow—the water trying to kill him, to end him—

The scenery was very pretty, he thought, and there were new things to look at, but it was all a green and blue blur and he was used to the gray and black of the city, the sounds of the city.

The plane slewed suddenly to the right.

The forest was largely made up of pines and spruce, with stands of some low brush smeared here and there and thick grass and some other kind of very small brush all over.

With it came some warmth, small bits of it at first, and with the heat came clouds of insects.

His stomach tightened into a series of rolling knots.

Then the bird started again, and some kind of buzzing insect, and then a chattering and a cawing.

He was alone. In the roaring plane with no pilot he was alone. Alone.

Gradually, like sloshing oil his thoughts settled back and the panic was gone.

He closed his eyes and slept, dreamless, deep and down.

The plane, committed now to landing, to crashing, fell into the wide place like a stone.

And now a jolt took him like a hammerblow.

He had to fly it somehow. Had to fly the plane. He had to help himself. The pilot was gone, beyond anything he could do. He had to try and fly the plane.

Be asleep, his mind screamed at the pilot.

Either way he would probably be home by late night or early morning, home where he could sit down and eat a large, cheesy, juicy burger with tomatoes and double fries with ketchup and a thick chocolate shake.

For a second all he heard was the whusssh of the empty air waves.

It was as if his hands and arms were as heavy as lead.

The pilot nodded. "All of flying is easy. Just takes learning. Like everything else. Like everything else."

It was a clear, blue-sky day with fluffy bits of clouds here and there.

The memory was like a knife cutting into him. Slicing deep into him with hate.