You enter the savannah without any water or food. Next mistake: crashing through some brush and trampling a twig.
“No big deal,” you think, “the lion couldn’t have heard that. I’ll catch him before the hour’s out.”
Five hours later, you falter beneath the overhead African sun. Your stomach has long since quit growling its complaint. A lion-shape shifts on the horizon. Mirage or reality?
Mirage, you decide, as the lion appears, not where you expected, but to the right, sudden and looming. He snarls, captures you in his long claws and teeth, and makes a mincemeat pie.
The end. Go to page 32 to start over.
***
You come more prepared with a knapsack, hat, food, water, map, and compass. The essentials. You still sound like an elephant felling trees but try to shrug off the sound.
“The lion comes when you’re hungry and thirsty and can’t see straight,” you nod, “not because you’re as noisy as a herd of wildebeest.” You stretch your legs, head out across the plains.
Several hours later, the granola bars have vanished—who knew you’d be famished within the hour or have to share them with some curious locals?—and the compass seems to spin and spin and spin. You pound it against your palm, because beating a thing always works out well, move a step or two to the right—
Lion! He snatches you up, tears you to pieces.
The end. Go to page 32 to start over.
***
“Okay, this time I’ve got it,” you think. The essentials, plus some flint and a bedroll in case the hunt requires an overnight stay. You watch your steps, avoid fallen branches. You’re quieter, but no one would accuse you of stealth.
You survive longer this time, actually see a pride. You catch a glint of something in peripheral and turn your head—
Too late. The last thing you see: the lion’s golden, gleaming eyes as his tongue slavers over your face.
The end. Go to page 32 to start over.
***
You come prepared to the savanna: everything you need for an extended stay. You study, too, learn to walk like a panther and how to cover man-scent.
“This time,” you decide, “I’ll wait for him to come to me.”
You do. Your muscles go to sleep, but you stay alert. There. The lion approaches, has come.
You wait in stillness a while longer, watch the lion glow in the moonlight. You then leap and wrestle the lion into submission because you, you, are the better writer; and the better writer waits diligently and hunts persistently. The lion is yours. Take home your prize.
The end.
Image: Digital Aesthetica (Creative Commons)