The last literary device I used was my laptop.
I think I'm in trouble here.
Tuesday afternoon, we canoed down the Caney Fork River. The mosquitoes buzzed ‘round our heads as we kept up a pretty good pace. The water was clear, the sun reflecting off the surface, our paddles making plunking sounds at the beginning of each stroke. The sun burned our hatless heads, rivulets of sweat soaking our shirt collars.
Ed spied a cabin not far from the bank, so we paddled ashore to check it out. Waiting for Ed, I guzzled down a pint of cold, yeasty beer. Ahh, deliverance.
Ed, terrified, raced back to the canoe. “Paddle fast! I hear banjoes!”