When I was taking a college level course on short story writing, I was asked to write a short story of my choosing. My teacher however hated the story below. It lacked character development. he said.
The story isn't about the main character persona;lity traits but they are implied in the tale, as much as it is about what happens to him. I chose to write this specific tale because it was different in the sense that I had to research my story. What you'll read below are the results of such research wolfie style.
That is in vivid and intense detail. Enjoy! 
The man stepped into a milky-white mass and immediately felt a sharp sting on his foot. Startled, he stumbled forward and looked down. The viper coiled in on itself, ready for another attack.
The man quickly eyed his foot towards the bite where he noticed two bloody punctures, and he grabbed his machete, from his waist. The snake saw the threat and lowered its head further into its body, but the machete fell out of range, merely grazing its spine.
The man reached down to touch the wound and wiped the two drops of blood with his fingers. For a moment, he crouched and contemplated the situation. A sharp pain was beginning to travel away from the now purple punctures and was beginning to invade his entire foot. In haste, he made a tourniquet out of his handkerchief, wrapped it around his ankle and stumbled towards his ranch.
The pain in his foot was increasing, with a throbbing sensation and the man felt two or three sharp twinges that resembled bolts of lightning radiating from the wound towards the middle of his leg. His leg moved with great difficulty. He felt a metallic dryness in his throat, followed by an agonizing fit of thirst.
He reached the entrance to the ranch and threw his arms on the wooden fence to support himself. The two purple patches on his foot had disappeared and in their place there was a enormous bulge. The flesh surrounding the bulge seemed to be thinning and about to burst from the pressure. He wanted to call out for his wife but his voice cracked. The thirst was consuming him.
"Maria!" he strained to say. "Give me some moonshine!"
His wife ran towards him with a full glass that the man gulped in three swallows. He couldn't taste the liquor. It hadn't made a dent in his thirst whatsoever.
"I asked you for moonshine, not water!" he shouted hoarsely. "Give me moonshine."
"But it is moonshine! Ramon," his wife protested.
"No, you gave me water! I want moonshine, I tell you!" he demanded as he was straining for his voice to be heard.
The woman ran back to the house, to fetch another glass of moonshine for her husband. She returned, and the man grabbed the glass with desperation. He gulped the glass of moonshine in two gulps but this time he couldn't even feel the liquid touch his mouth or even feel it go down his throat.
His wife returned to her washing after deciding the man was probably under the throes of another alcoholic stupor.
He didn't realize that he was alone. "Well," He mumbled to himself without even noticing if his wife was beside him, "this is getting very ugly for me." He lowered his eyes to check his foot. The foot was acquiring a gangrenous luster about it, under the tourniquet, the flesh was bulging around the handkerchief. Yet, the man couldn't register the hideous sight in his brain.
The firing thrusts of pain were increasing in intensity and were beginning to reach his groin. The atrocious sense of thirst was burning through him. His breath was becoming laborious, but he didn't notice the difference.
When he doubled over after feeling a sudden fit of nausea, he couldn't feel the vomit spurt out of his mouth. He watched the noxious liquid fly out and he was mesmerized by the sight. His arm seemed to have locked itself on the fence post and he watched that, as well, with great amazement.
But the man hadn't made the connection between the bite and the possibility of his imminent demise. In a state of extreme delirium, he unlocked his arm from the fence post with his free hand and stumbled his body towards his canoe.
His wife watched him swagger from the kitchen window. She grunted to herself in disgust. "Look at 'im. Falling down drunk again and there he goes back to his brother's house for a second round."
The man crawled into his canoe and fell forward, bumping his head but he never felt the blow. He looked up to see where he was exactly and guessed that the oar must be close to him, since he had landed in the middle of the canoe.
He shifted his body to the right and felt under him. His hand met resistance but his fingers couldn't assess neither the shape not the texture of the wood.
He changed positions and groped around once more. The tips of his fingers felt a slender shape and he ran his fingers over the shape, yet his brain couldn't register the name of the object, he had just touched. He lifted it to get a better look at it.
He sat up then to use this nameless object and placed it in the water. His brain was sending signals to his arms to help him push the water with the object so the canoe would move, but his arms couldn't obey.
The current of the water was sending him away from his ranch. The weight of the oar became unbearable, it fell from his grip and floated away from him. It didn't matter, his hands had already gone numb.
The current would take him to the tributaries where his brother lived in twenty minutes, he briefly thought to himself. The canoe took him to the midpoint of the Orinoco River. His body heaved for a second and a spurt of bloody vomit flew out his mouth. His head turned towards the sun. He should reach the shore of his brother's house by sundown.
His entire leg was swelling to an enormous size, ready to burst his pants. The man removed the tourniquet and ripped his pants off his body with a maniacal frenzy. His stomach was also bulging. Under his boxer shorts, pasty white blotches were rapidly forming on his flesh and his stomach was sending messages of pain to his brain.
After noticing the bulge, he briefly thought for an instant about how he was going to quit drinking beer in a very distant future. The man also thought about what he was going to tell his brother and was desperately searching for a good reason to pay him a visit. They had been at odds after a sordid incident involving the shooting of his nephew's favorite pig.
The current of the river was becoming stronger and was carrying the canoe further from his destination, but he didn't notice. At one point he thought he recognized his brother's house and shouted his brother's name with what was left of his voice.
In the silence of the jungle, he heard no reply. The current was gaining force and sent him further into the Orinoco River tributaries that lead towards the Atlantic Ocean.
A pair of Yamamamo Indians that were fishing in the riverbank watched the canoe drift by and thought it was just another native in a drunken stupor. They didn't feel the urge to rescue the canoe's occupant whose head was obviously having difficulty staying up.
The sun was already falling and the man was laid out on the bottom of the canoe. He felt a cold shiver travel through his spine. Amazingly, he felt sightly better. He lifted his head heavily. His leg was throbbing less, his thirst was diminishing and his chest was drawing in more air.
Since he was feeling much better, it was becoming obvious to him that the poison was leaving him. His arms were still very heavy and he still didn't have the strength to lift his head. He figured that he would reach his brother's house in ten minutes.
His mind was becoming clearer and questions ran through it. Did his father still lived in Apure? Perhaps he might be able to stay the night if he profusely apologized to his nephew. Was this possible? His body felt incredibly light and he knew he was getting better.
Was he close to his destination? The falling sun filled the canoe with a golden light. The canoe was being sent with amazing speed towards a whirlpool. Its occupant was feeling much better, and thought that he might have floated by the house of his buddy Roberto Mendez and felt immense guilt at not having even thought of stopping the canoe.
Suddenly, he felt an icy sensation in his chest. What was it? And his breath was also turning icy. He was trying to recall what day of the week it was. Was it Thursday? Friday?
While trying to remember, he absent-mindedly stretched out his arms as if he were preparing himself to be crucified.
He ceased to breathe...
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