To Go Home

Abruptly, Lydia came awake as the orc grabbed her arm with the strength of a vice and pulled her roughly out of her bed, her blanket falling to the floor, leaving her naked and cold. His grip hurt, but she did not scream or struggle. This was her life now. He had taken everything from her, the orc. Her home, her clothes, her dignity. She was his possession, his toy. For two weeks she had suffered every degradation, being passed around between slavers like a plaything. For two weeks, fettered and naked, each day was an endless stream of abuse. She had no more fight in her. She let herself cry quietly while the orc Jaraz pulled her out of the room.

She tripped once on her fetters as Jaraz passed through the common room where slavers sat around a table playing cards. They did not even look at her or make jokes about her. She had been a pretty girl once, and would be if given a chance to wash up, with a slim figure and long brown, almost blond hair, with soft blue eyes that drew one in and revealed her gentler spirit. Now she was a wreck. Not even a human, just a toy to fuck a few times a night. Her hair was lank and dirty, her eyes dull, tired and vacant, her body sore and sagging. She was used up. She felt old though she had not yet reached her twentieth year.

Wordlessly, Jaraz tossed her to the floor. She landed on her hands and knees and stayed that way. Better to stay. Better to not fight it. It wouldn't end sooner, but it would hurt less. She stared at the wall and heard the sound of Jaraz's trousers drop. Cold tears dripped down her face and fell off her chin to splash on the floor. She wanted to die. She wanted nothing more than to die. She did not want the Hearafter with her god Seinac. No, Seinac abandoned her. She wanted nothingness. She'd be better off if she had never existed.

He entered her. She choked on a sob and looked at the dirty floor. It didn't hurt so much anymore. She had become numb. His thrusts came in a rhythm now. His heavy breath came in rhythm. He disgusted her, he shamed her. He stank of ale and sweat. She disgusted and shamed herself to permit herself to give in.

Then abruptly he stopped. Something warm and wet sprayed on her back and hit the floor. She looked at it and gasped, horrified. Red drops of blood. The pain between her legs was sore, but it no longer came. She looked behind herself and to her horror, a dark clad woman held Jaraz's head back, his throat slit from ear to ear, his red blood rushing from his ruined neck. The assassin's blade dripped slow thick drops as she tossed Jaraz to the ground, a look of pure hatred and vindication in her hard sapphire eyes.

Suddenly free of the orc, Lydia scrambled into a corner and shrank away from the terrifying woman. Lydia trembled, shaking violently.

“Please no . . . don't kill me!,” she stammered beneath a whisper, before she even realized she was saying anything.

The assassin wiped her blade on Jaraz and then sheathed the weapon with a force that spoke of restrained anger. The woman was young. Very young. A woman yes, but not long past girlhood. Her pale face was framed by straight dark brown hair that fell to her shoulders. Her sharp blue eyes studied Lydia a moment. There was something about this woman that gnawed at Lydia.

“I'm not going to kill you,” the assassin said as if the thought was absurd. Lydia sniffed, taking in emotions that almost overwhelmed her. Who was this woman? She was a Darincedonian, that was a shocking revelation, but it was something else gnawing at her. She glanced down at Jaraz, who lay belly down, his trousers at his ankles and his face in a pool of blood.

The assassin bent down to Lydia's feet and began picking the lock to her fetters. “Do you have any clothes?” she asked.

Jaraz had stripped her in a shack before he bought her, destroyed even the scrap she had been forced to wear on the ship that brought her here. She had been naked since that terrible day, and every terrible day after. “That monster took them away from me.” He had taken everything from her.

The assassin pulled a blanket off the bed in the room and wrapped it around Lydia's shoulders comfortingly. The blanket was musty and smelled but was warm. She welcomed its embrace and held it tight around her body. The assassin, her rescuer, gave her a calming look, her sapphire eyes sympathetic. She held Lydia by the shoulder as she trembled.

Hope. Lydia now knew hope. Her fear diminished and a feeling of peace and serenity filled her soul. It was over. The nightmare was over. She could wake up now. She was going home. She looked at her rescuer and smiled.

This is sort of an excerpt from a book I am working on, except that this scene is being told from Lydia's PoV whereas in the book the assassin, one Suzetta Kernohan, is the PoV. In the book, Suzetta had been sold as a slave, molested by Jaraz and then later escaped. Now she returns to kill Jaraz and happens to rescue Lydia at the same time.

It's a bit of a gruesome story, a woman gets raped and that's never a fun topic to write. I wanted to find a way to describe her pain without going too far into the disgusting details. She is hopeless, basically serving as a sex slave for whatever the rest of her life will be. But I think this was worth writing because when I get to the next draft of the story I'll be able to put more detail into this scene, even though it will be from Suzetta's view point.

A Report of the Failed Mission to Dead Paeriannis

A Report of the Failed Mission to Dead Paeriannis
April 7th, third year of the Fourth Age
by Sir Robern Joryt of the Royal Protectorate of Darincedonia

I write this report with a trembling hand. I know I shall never escape from the haunting nightmares nor the relentless visions. I can, even now as I write, hear their terrible screams, their shrieks of agony and fear. Ever since those evil days in the dark woodlands of Paeriannis, I have been haunted endlessly without hope of relief. I fear my end comes soon, for not even wine nor the silky smoke of the poppy leaf can relax my mind. If you seek me after reading this report it is too late, for I intend to fall upon my sword as soon as the messenger boy sends this to the Arcanite Council.

I beseech you, visit not the forsaken lands of the elves! Of twenty paladins who set off on this vile venture, only I survived, fleeing that cursed place, shrieking as I ran! We knew the land had been cursed, doomed by Raeldrek or his lieutenant, Sarastae the Lich, but we did not fully grasp the extent of his power, even after his passing. It was to be a noble mission, to seek and aid any elf who may have survived the slaughter but I can only reach the conclusion, after what we encountered in the forests, that none have survived. If the fate of the elves was only death, they were fortunate, for that forest and its curse contained a worse secret.

From the port city of Krevrin we set off, in the traitor kingdom of Elrund and northward we rode for a two week journey in the lowlands. It was a glorious march! The banners of the Royal Protectorate of Darincedonia fluttered in the wind and our armor shone brilliantly in the summer sun. Suspicious Elrundian farmers paused from their labors as they watched us pass, they scowled and looked upon us with wonder. Behind us, news reached us that Prince Tamoran himself had returned to Krevrin and had assassinated his own father, and thus the Elrundian army, itself was too busy with political infighting to worry about us and so we marched, in our vanity and pride, unchecked, towards the ruins of beautiful Paeriannis.

As we traveled north however, the weather grew steadily worse and worse. The winds were cold and carried a foul stench of rot and decay, however the war was still fresh and thus we ignored the warnings and pressed forward. It seemed that the sun would never again show itself from the skies, a great gray cloud settled in and a chill shook our bones. No birds flew and there were no cheerful thoughts among us as our journey north continued. We camped that night in a cold that our blankets could not guard us from and sleep evaded us. The next day we saw a village in the distance.

It seemed deserted when we arrived. The streets were empty, there were no cattle, no horses, no merchants or peasants as we passed through and though the outlying buildings had shown signs of fire and war, we assumed, erroneously, that such damage was caused by the war which had only ended months ago. If deserted, than it was recent, and in a hurry as we entered the tavern and found it in complete disarray. Beer had been spilt and tables over turned, chairs pushed aside as if there was a sudden mass exodus. The fire in the fireplace was out but the embers still had some warmth, although not uncomfortable against human skin. More disconcerting however, were the blood trails leading out the doors we had entered, as if some of them had been injured in some melee and had been manhandled out of the building. What caused such an exodus? From whence came the blood? These questions and more floated uselessly in our minds. Our mission in Paeriannis pressed us onward however and it was with reluctance that we left the tavern.

It was then that we found our first sign of life. A fat shopkeeper up the street was scurrying to and fro, packing his belongings on a cart hitched to a sleek horse. He muttered to himself, glancing northward every so often as he scrambled around securing his packs to his cart.

“Ho there!” our Captain cried, a stalwart and worthy paladin. “What news have you?”

“Flee damn you!” the Elrundian replied in a thick accent.

The captain gave pause. “What nameless entity gives you such fear? I fear him not! I am a paladin, a Knight Captain and I have been through war and hell and have never met fear.”

“Then you are ignorant and stupid,” the Elrundian replied, tightening the ropes on his cart. “They came from the north they did. Elves. Dead elves. And werewolves too. They killed many of us. And those who thought they were fearless, like you, you stupid bloke, died first.”

The captain snorted. “I do not fear the undead.”

The merchant shook his head. “They have attacked us relentlessly for the past week, though we've held them off. Each night they come again though, and in greater numbers. Last night was the worst. They brought . . . something new. It came to the tavern and no man or woman could stand to it. They all fled. I should have fled but I had locked myself in my home as those things flooded the streets. Some villagers may have survived perhaps, I don't know. But the creatures, the thing from Paeriannis, it dragged away the bodies when the sun came up and retreated. Perhaps they devoured the corpses, I don't know and I don't care. I'm leaving.”

And with that, the Elrundian merchant climbed upon his wagon and cracked a short whip. The horse, burdened as it was was stirred into a frenzy and galloped as hard as it could. A box of the man's treasures fell from his crate and broke open, spilling hundreds of gold pieces along the street. The Elrundian stopped the cart, stared at the gold for a moment, then looked to the north. With a distraught expression, he pressed on, and disappeared southward.

In our vanity, we pressed on northward, nonplussed by the abandoned village or the warnings of the shaken merchant. As we crested the foothills and entered the dark wood, the village, the last we saw of living civilization, disappeared into the twilight. Even the very wildlife had more sense than twenty senseless paladins, every deer we saw, every rodent that scurried, all seemed to go southward. The trees, green and broadleaved, were abandoned by its companions and then all of a sudden, they too were all dead. This marked the border, from living to dead, of Paeriannis the Lost Kingdom.

They were dead, all of them, twisted and it seemed as though the trees themselves were expressing their agony. The naked trees were leafless, the scattered brown leaves buried the ground. A yellow ooze dripped from holes in the trees where once owls and squirrels made their nests. It was sticky like pus and it hung grotesquely from branches. It seemed like some diseased fungus, some lecherous lichen or mold cast like mucous on branch and twig. And from the ground grew hideous green and purple mushrooms, some as high as men, releasing foul spores in the air and releasing a foul reek.

None of us spoke as we entered dead Paeriannis. There was no sound, only a loud silence that deafened our ears and saddened our hearts. Only the hooves of our horses disturbed the sacrilegious silence. Now the wind was no longer blowing, the air was still and stuffy. No song or jest could warm our hearts, and so silently we marched north.

We intersected a road not to far past the border. It was a widened dirt path, the effects of eons of wheeled wagons evident in the solid dirt. It was caked with black dried blood and ash. Broken wagons and carriages were strewn about like a giant's play things, some charred, some burnt beyond recognition. And then there was the dead. Elven travelers lying face first, as if fleeing the war were scattered about. There was no sign of decay however, their only deformity was whatever wound had killed them. Some were stuck full of arrows, like pin cushions, some were dismembered and disemboweled The trees were lined with merchants, both Elrundians and elves, impaled on trees, metal spikes through their guts, all with a look of horror etched on their dead faces.

We stopped here. There was one service alone that we could perform for these wretches. It was tiresome and gruesome work, but with heavy hearts, we gathered the corpses as best we could and burned them in a bonfire. It was then we knew we had entered hell. We made camp that night on the side of the road. We posted one sentry and woke up unmolested and continued our journey onward.

Very little happened for three days, we saw nothing except for the mangled dead and burnt villages. The unending silence ended on that third day, replaced by endless shrieking and howling always beyond our sight. The pus-like slime now covered everything and our horses were forced to walk in the stuff, sticking horridly to the putrescence on the ground. There were more and more of those foul mushrooms and the scent was making us sick. The sun was gone now, blotted by a black cloud, creating a gray and dull atmosphere. We marched, our spirits low for we were beginning to see how vain and foolish our notion was to seek out survivors in this land. Even know we knew no one and nothing lived except for the foul necromancy that worked its evil magic on the land. Our pride went before us and we refused to turn back and admit to failure.

Yet, even with the howling and shrieking of distant creatures, we were unmolested. They never came into our sight, except at night the sentry reported foul yellow eyes and vague shadows yonder in the trees, but never came close enough for us to see and never lingered long enough for anything but a fool's shot with a bow, and so we wasted no arrows on these wraiths.

It began on our fifth night in the woods. It was beyond midnight when a bloodcurdling scream woke us all up. Quickly we grabbed our weapons and rushed out of our tents. Our fire was still burning and in the firelight we saw the knight who had been up for sentry duty had been slain. He lay face up, his entire body below his abdomen gone, his intestines hanging out like bloody bits of coiled ropes and a wide pool of blood already turning black. His face appeared to have been clawed off. A quick examination of the camp found his legs against a tree as if they had been thrown. We were sturdy men, we could handle blood but such a violent death was new to us. All of us staunch men, but a few retched in the trees at the sight.
“What manner of beast did this?” the captain asked.

But before any could speculate an answer, the shrieking grew intense and it was around us. Then one jumped into the firelight, but only for a second. But a second was all that was needed to burn this creature into my memory and haunt me forever. It was about the size of a man, but a shadow covered in black fur with glowing eyes of gold. It stood on its hind-legs, arms ready to strike with claws as sharp and long as daggers. It was similar to that of a wolf and yet much like a man, like the remnant of the old werewolf race, the slaughtered children of Lupos, but this creature was naught but a beast of rage.

It pounced upon one of us who wrestled with it for a while as another knight drew his sword and swung at the creature who deftly avoided the blade and jumped away. Its victim unharmed, got up. The beast, frustrated, loped wolf-like into the dark where it howled. We stood a wary circle around the fire, sword and shield at the ready for the response and after what seemed a horrific eternity, it came. From every direction, they came, howling and snarling, jumping upon us from every direction. Of their number, I could not comprehend. Now that my head is as clear as it will ever be after this these events, there couldn't have been more than ten, but it seemed there were hundreds. Their speed and agility were beyond belief. Our swords often failed to connect with fur and muscle but met air. We fought like babes flailing about in the darkness. And when we did land a strike, the monsters felt no pain. I loped off the arm of one such creature and it looked at me, snarled and then tackled me to the ground. I held it by the neck in a choke as its jaws snapped inches from my face. No blood came from its wound, but that same yellow slime. Quickly I stuck my sword into its head. The beast gave an awful howl. Such a strike should have been a killing blow but rather, with its remaining arm, it swiped for my face. I rolled away in time, pulling out my sword as I did, pushing him back with my shield. I sliced the creature's head off and with a spurt of yellow slime, it landed in the dirt and glared at me before those golden eyes dimmed.

As the desperate melee continued, there was a loud moaning in the trees, like wind brushing past some dark cave. Then they came, the undead, elves mostly though few Elrundians were among them. Some were soldiers, slaughtered in the War of the Dragon God, but most were farmers, merchants, civilians brandishing whatever they could find as a weapon. A few simply came unarmed, mindless and cruel. Some brandished arrows and shots rang out in the night. A knight went down, arrow in his chest. A salivating werewolf ripped out the poor man's throat and then romped onward to tackle another.

The slain knight gave a start. Some hope entered me as I saw him rise, somehow survive such a mortal wounding but then, with madness in his eyes, he was upon me. Blood still poured from his neck as he attacked. His undeath however had cost the man his prowess in battle. I cut him down and then struck him again and again until he stopped moving. Even now I see him staring at me, lying on his back as I killed him, though I knew he was gone. He was a man I had known from childhood and it rent my heart to slay him in such a manner.

The undead and the werewolves fought with a vengeance unseen since the War. But in the dark of dead Paeriannis, ultimately the prowess of the paladins of Darincedonia prevailed and they retreated in the dark, leaving the twitching dead in the dirt and the slime. We lost few, seven of our own had to be cut down several times as the curse reanimated their remains. We threw the bodies in the fire and as we did so, for the seven we lost, they had lost about fifty, though numbers mean little to an undead horde. Why they retreated, I cannot say but it was clear to us that something was commanding them. Something was controlling them and this something had a strategy in mind.

“Which of these killed Sir Dravis?” one knight asked, musing, referring to our bisected sentry.

“None,” our captain replied. “Although these creatures were most fearsome, they could not rip a man in half like a girl's doll.”

“Whatever that thing is, it is still out there,” the other knight replied.

“Leading this rabble, I presume,” the captain replied.

“Our task is hopeless,” another knight cried out, “there are no survivors, anything and everyone in Paeriannis was slain in the war and if not, then slain by this curse after the war to become the undead. We should not have come!”
There was much muttering at this.

“Our task was appointed by the Council itself to seek and destroy the corruption of Paeriannis and bring back any survivors,” the captain replied. “This is what we shall do.”

“Are you mad?” the knight cried out. “There is an army of undead and werewolves out there, a creature of unknown power, leading them. There is no hope here, only death! They are regrouping, their force was too small, we should leave now while we still have a chance, before they surround us.”

“I do my duties, Sir Eldreth, even to the death.”

“I do my duty as well, and I am willing to die for them, but this is a lost cause. We need to escape, and come back later with an army. The Council did not expect the undead to still exist in this region, with Raeldrek the Necromancer defeated.”

“Sir!” another knight cried out. “Sir, the horses!”

The paladins turned. The horse were gone. From the trees to which they were hitch was naught but blood and horse hair. The knights followed the blood trail for a ways but dared not go beyond the light of the bonfire.

“Horse or no horse,” Eldreth continued, “Our only hope of survival is to flee.”

“The beast is the source of the corruption, his existence, I believe, is keeping Paeriannis dead and allowing the necromantic energy to bring undeath to these corpses. We must find him.” the captain replied.

“Damn you, if you find me again, lock me in the stocks if you must, a prison is a better place than this, I take my leave!” And with that Eldreth ran into the night.

The twelve remaining paladins were silent for a moment. Then there was a throaty snarl. A high pitched scream. And then silence once again.

There was no sleeping the remainder of that night. We waited nervously around the fire as the shrieking and snarling around us continued but dawn came, at least dawn as it was in Paeriannis. Under that dead embankment of cloud we packed up only what we needed and left behind our tents to seek the beast. We followed blood for a ways, horse blood, until at last we came to their half eaten corpses. From here we pondered for a moment what our next move would be. Reviewing the map, our captain decided to head toward whatever was left of Aldara'celantra, the city of the earth elves. We struck northeast until the sun went down. Then we set up a large fire and a few of us slept under trees while others kept watch, ready and alert.

How foolish our captain was and how foolish we were to follow him. For we awoke to no nightly noises but to hidden sunlight and our captain's head on a spike and the sentries dead, dismembered and disemboweled There were seven of us left now and all of us agreed Paeriannis was lost. We turned around and headed south as fast as we could.

But our doomed venture took us too far north and night eventually caught up with us. One of us carried a torch and the rest followed. As darkness settled in, the shrieking and howling grew closer. There was a crack like a whip and suddenly a tentacle grabbed the knight in the lead by the foot, and he collapsed, dropping the torch. The fire caught some dead brambles and as it hadn't rained for a while, the dead bushes caught fire. The knight itself slashed the tentacle with his sword and it let him go.

Then it stepped into the firelight. The Elrundian's I spoke to named it “Gorlock,” meaning “Doom demon.” Whether it was a demon from hell or some necromantic monstrosity Raeldrek had dreamed up, I do not know nor care. It was quite clearly twice the size of a man. It's face was wolfish and it was a thing of claws and tentacles. Even now as I write I cannot describe this thing as I can no longer picture it in my mind.

It picked up the knight, wrapping around his chest, pinning his sword arm to his side. It picked him up and roared in his face. The knight dropped his sword. Then with one of its arms, its claws plunged into his chest and ripped out his heart. Then it ripped him in half and threw his gory parts aside. We circled it, out of range of its claws and tentacles. It gave a low howl and then there were shrieks in response around us. A werewolf pounced from the trees and smashed into me but I deftly rolled aside, and blocked him with my shield. The Gorlock, with frightening agility, grabbed three men with its tentacles and threw them into the fire where they screamed out in agony. More werewolves bounded into the firelight. The remaining three of us saw we were outnumbered at least ten to one with more shrieking in the darkness around us. Our minds went blank and we ran.

To this day, I am unsure what happened next. Something hit me and I awoke in the morning. Why they didn't kill me, I am not sure. I think perhaps they thought I was dead like the others. The other two knights, they were gruesomely killed. I saw their remains as I gathered myself. Then, while it was daylight, I ran. I did not stop. Through the night as well I ran. I could hear their shrieks and howls behind me and I do not know if they were pursuing me. When day came, I'd stop and rest. I had no food and I was getting dreadfully hungry but the nightmares were behind me, ahead of me and around me. My armor weighed me down so I left it behind. My sword as well for I had no hope for victory. Somehow, I had gone east and soon there was the sea. Though I could not yet see it, I could smell it. I ran headlong for it and suddenly heard the thumping of paws at my back. They were behind me, chasing me.

I screamed and ran even faster, tripping over rock and bush. I emerged from the forests onto the beach and then my heart lept for joy. Sails were on the horizon. From what nation, I did not know or care. I lept into the sea hoping against hope that the ship would see my commotion and come to my rescue. My pursuers stopped and upon the beach they snarled and yelped. I was beyond their reach. I didn't know why but they didn't like the water. And then at last I saw. From the edge of the cloud came the sun's rays. The mindless undead hated the sun and only under the influence of a necromancer, could they be driven into daylight. These had no master

The sailors on the ship saw me. They were merchants from Darincedonia seeking to port at Krevrin, their navigator and captain were arguing as I came aboard and it was my luck and my life that the navigator had misjudged the wind and they had sailed further north than they had desired. It is upon this ship that I pen this document. It has been three weeks and we should be in Darincedon soon. They tell me the harbor is rebuilt and the city is coming back to life. After so much death and destruction a new world is being born from the ashes. Perhaps there is some joy to life yet, but I shall not share in it. No, the doomed venture into dead Paeriannis shall be my last.

Upon receiving this document, the Arcanite Scholars sent men out to find Sir Joryt and save him from himself. It was too late. Sir Joryt fell upon his sword in his room in a tavern not far from the Darincedon harbor. The Scholars set out to Paeriannis, never entering it proper and set wards along the border to keep the undead in and put up signs warning those who approach to stay out. The Royal Protectorate foolishly built an army of three thousand men to seek the Gorlock and destroy him. Only seventeen returned, all of whom either went insane or committed suicide. Expeditions into Paeriannis all met the same fate. The Elrundians, the Lanadorians and even a group of Fire Elves tried to enter Paeriannis. Most of them died or lost their minds. Of the Gorlock, it entered legend, never seen again by any man alive. -Librarian Josi Filin, Library of Darincedonia

Author's Note: This is a document from Astarnia detailing a trip into a nation once known as Paeriannis after a devastating war destroyed it with evil spells of necromancy. Raeldrek was the prime antagonist of that war, a powerful sorcerer who committed unspeakable acts. This document occurs right after that war as nations are recovering.

Suzetta and the Ogre

In the midst of the battle, the vast ogre hollered, bashing away soldiers as it lumbered through the field. Suzetta, her feet firmly planted on the bloodstained grass, threw down her swords, pulled two daggers from her belt and charged at the beast head on. At the final moment she jumped, narrowly avoiding the monster's powerful arm swiping at her, as one would swat a fly. She hit the beast, her daggers plunged into its chest. It shrieked in pain as hot blood sprayed out onto Suzetta's face and leather armor. She clung precariously, like a mountain climber on a cliff with a pickhammer. With effort, Suzetta pulled her self up, pulling her right hand dagger out with a jerk and then jabbing it into the beast's jugular. It began to sway and it staggered back in pain and panic. Then Suzetta yanked the left dagger free and then jumped up again and slammed it into the beast's eye. It collapsed to the ground with a sickening thud and catlike, Suzetta jumped off, landed on her feet and retrieved her swords.

My favorite part of combat in Dragon Age: Origins is when you get a killing blow on an ogre. You basically do what this paragraph discribes but in slow motion.

Gas! Gas! Gas!

At Kunsan Air Base, SSgt Kohler and I were enjoying a cigarette break or at least, he was enjoying the cigarette and I was enjoying the break. It was hot that day, a sweltering ninety seven degrees and humid and the extraneous fabric of the Airman's Battle Uniform did not help whatsoever.

So it was to our great dismay when the Giant Voice announced "Exercise, exercise, exercise. Alarm yellow. Alarm yellow. MOPP level 4. MOPP level 4."

Kohler and I both swore simultaneously as we jumped to our feet, pulled our gas masks on our faces and then rushed as fast as we could to our chemical defense gear. MOPP level 4. This meant, the entire suit from head to toe, no exposed skin whasoever.

I got to my bag and immediately pulled on the heavy charcoal lined trousers. I zipped them up, snapped the triple snap, pulled the straps around the waste and made it tight. Then the overcoat came on over that. And already, I was sweating from the heat. The gas mask, with its airtight seal, left no real ventilation from the heat. I got the overcoat on, zipped it, velcroed it, drew the strings and tied them tight. I pulled the jock strap in between my legs and snapped it in place.

Then I pulled my overboots on, strapping the pants over the boots, and followed with the gloves, strapping the sleeves of the overjacket to the rubber gloves. Then I put my hood up and tightened it. As SSgt Kohler and I were checking each other out, I felt a sudden urge.

I looked at him with exasperation.

"Man, I gotta take a piss."

It never fails, whether it be chemical defense gear or just freaking snow pants and a ski parka, once suited up, nature calls.

Wind

Wind
Howling, Yawning
Screams, whistles, roars
Oh how it bites!
Power

Chilling
Snow bitten, freezing
Churning and howling in
This frigid December air, the
Wind blows

Wind
Gentle, cool
Kisses, caresses, sings
It's calm embrace comforts
Serenity

Tickling
Dandelion
Seeds float over warm green grass
Defeating the arid heat of
the Sun.

Lotto Win

Carl entered the dingy gas station store, picked up a pepsi and two snickers bars and approached the counter. Behind it stood a beer bellied man in a black shirt and blue jeans. He had long bushy brown hair and a mustache and an aromatic mix of cigarettes and cheap beer. He was reading a newspaper.

"Roger! I didn't know this was your shift!" Carl grinned at the cashier.

Roger looked up, "Sarah's water broke, I'm taking her shift." He folded the paper and set it down.

"Congratulations to her," Carl replied.

Roger snorted, "another baby to a welfare mother. Sometimes, I hate the state government."

"What can you do Rog? What can you do?"

"I know what I'm gonna do," Roger answered. "I'm voting Republican next year. Getting real tired of this crap. Two snickers and a pepsi, lemme see . . ." his sausage-like fingers went over the register.

"And ten gallons of gas," Carl added.

"Thirty one seventy seven," Roger counted up. Carl slapped down a credit card and Roger swiped it.

The door opened and a man entered, an old tall man with a grizzly brown beard and a red cap on his head. As Carl gathered his snacks and his card, the man asked Roger for a lottery card.

"They're picking the numbers in just a few minutes," Roger said, pointing to a TV screen. The man leaned against the counter and scratched off the ticket. The three waited in suspense.

"What's the point?" Carl asked.

"Someone's gotta win," the man in the hat said, in a deep farmer's voice.

The numbers showed up on screen. The man jumped a mile.

"I won!" he shouted, and then, screaming in ecstasy, he ran out of the gas station. Carl and Roger watched him dancing and shouting and then he stepped into the street and got hit by a bus.

"Oh dear god!" Roger shouted, following Carl who was running out the door. The bus had pulled over and people were running towards the dead man.

"What luck!" Roger moaned.

"What luck!" Carl shouted happily.

"I'm gonna get the paramedics," Roger said, pulling out his cellphone.

"I'm gonna get the winning ticket!" Carl said gleefully

The Police Chase

Driving down I-95 in my Chevy Cavalier, I noticed I was being followed. I glanced into the rearview mirror and my heart squeezed a moment as I saw sirens. But then I realized my initial assessment was incorrect. The blue Taurus, which was following me, had a ski rack. A red and blue ski rack, made of glass.

I found this odd. Perhaps he was patriotic? Or maybe Russian. Or worse, French. I decided it was a French guy, but why he had a French colors on a ski rack while driving behind me in New Hampshire, I could not explain.

I continued driving and he stayed behind me. My mind drifted and soon, as my foot stayed on the gas. As I was riding a unicorn through verdant meadows, under a golden sky as the newborn sun began its approach, the speedometer was inching upward. When I snapped back to reality, I was doing ninety.

The Taurus behind me, the French dude, had lights coming from its ski rack. Flashing in French patriot colors. He was tailgating me, so in irritation, I pulled over to the slow lane let him pass. I cannot stand tailgaters. To my dismay, this clown stayed behind me.

This continued for a few miles. The French driver was getting irate. His ski rack was now wailing loudly and I was wondering why would you add a siren to a ski rack? Anti-theft device? Skis are expensive, but why would you set it off while you're tailgating someone? Especially since he wasn't carrying skis.

Now irate, I pulled over and came to a stop. He stopped behind me. Then the French clown came out of his car, inexplicably wearing a cop costume, looking very put out. He approached. I saw he had a gun, and not wanting to have my car stolen, I stepped on the gas and peeled out. The French guy ran back to his car and he began to chase me!

I flew at about 90 miles, trying to get this cop-disguised thief off my back. I could now see that not only had he stolen a cop uniform, he had also taken the time to paint the State Trooper emblem on his Taurus. I wondered why a French car thief would undergo such deception. He stayed behind me. For miles he chased me, he was truly desparate to steal my decrepit Cavalier! So I slammed on the brakes and he rear ended me. The force was so strong that my airbags blew and the car went off the road and into a ditch. The shock was so great, I loss consciousness.

I woke up, in a hospital, held hostage by a bunch of men in cop-costumes. I do not know what they want, and I do not know what became of my car. As soon as my wounds heal, I intend to escape!