Chapter 1 - 1
Running; the action of an animal moving upon its feet, one after the other in quick succession in order to acquire a speed faster than the contrasting pace of walking. In sport, running is defined as a gait in which the feet, at some point, do not even have contact with the ground. Running as a sport varies widely between many different classifications, such as competitive marathons, sprinting, and even hunting.
Hunting is the practise of pursuing live animals for food, recreation, and trade. Right now, my steady remembrance of everything I'd ever learnt in sport science and history back in school kept my mind occupied whilst my heart did all the work.
Steadily flicking the protruding twigs that zoomed in on me as my body lunged forward, I kept my breath in time with each movement of my right leg. I preferred to stay in perfect harmony between breathing and the movement of a certain part of my body as it gave me something to concentrate on. However, keeping pace with my breathing and running only aided it, not prolonged it, and as I felt my limit coming closer, I decided to decide.
My decision was final as I jumped as high as I could, kicking my left leg out in such a way that it caused my centre of gravity to switch to my thigh. This shift in gravity combined with my speed allowed for me to turn sharply in mid-air and land comfortably with complete control of the rest of my body. Perfect execution needed a follow up, and I realised I was not out of the situation yet, despite my incredibly stylish performance.
My eyes rose to my adversary, bounding just as gracefully as I had through the forest.
Time lasts forever when it is spent in suspense; I used this eternity wisely, considering my situation meticulously, tediously, and thoroughly.
Slowly raising my firing arm to my right shoulder, cocking back the dust shaft of the weapon to a point where the ammunition contained was most certainly primed and ready to be launched, I acquired my desired firing stance, in full view of my opponent.
"Give up Alex." Ordered my masked harrier.
I refused to answer to his impolite order.
My trigger happy finger squeezed in retaliation to the subtle movement of my enemy's contrasting finger lowering itself to fire.
I felt the recoil hit my shoulder.
I felt the calm, collected, cold feeling wash over me.
I felt the satisfaction.
The inanimate body before me fell to the sea of yellow. The autumn leaves softened the thump with a crispy whisper, allowing the pristine quiet fall over the forest once more. I begged the forest with a small grinding of my feet, I required peace, yet the hunter had its foxes.
Rising to my feet once again, with added caution, I surveyed the landscape surrounding me. The monotonous colour of yellow, brown, and red savagely captivated the integral essence of what a forest meant to me. Throughout my life, I'd been surrounded by woodland, whether it was the hardy alpines of Canada, the golden leaved trees of England, or the flammable death traps of Australia. Forest, to myself, was what fire was to the chef; it was required for me to work properly and professionally.
Nostalgia overtook me, hanging in the beauty, reminiscing time gone by. I listened to the silence religiously. The sound was a high pitched resonance of serenity, undisturbed by the whistling of the wind, combined with the shouting of my dead game, it was truly magnificent.
A window of opportunity had blown open; the sanguine sharp shot ripped the bark from a tree dangerously close to my vicinity. My muscles flexed, tensed, then bounced into action as I blasted into backwards steps, keeping my weapon closely prepped to my shoulder.
