I am standing in the middle of a national forest in a campsite I set up five minutes ago. My green-domed tent matches the surrounding vegetation. I am a little tired from struggling with the tent poles. It was my first time doing it, so I am feeling pretty proud of myself. The sun will be setting soon so I look around in search of some wood for a fire. I have never made a fire either, I am going by what I have seen on tv and in the movies. It can’t be that hard, right? I sprinkle a handful of pine needles over my messy pile of sticks and begin to rub two sticks together watching for signs of smoke. After just five minutes my hands are achy and numb. I wanted to do this all on my own, but I am realizing that will not work. Grabbing my brown leather satchel, I fumble with the buckle then open the flap and pull out the plastic container that holds the five single matches my husband insisted I bring. It looks like I am going to be hearing an “I told you so” when I get back home. I don’t really care at this point; my stomach is starting to growl and all I can think about is heating up this can of beanie weenies. I giggle thinking about Eric’s face when I proudly displayed my genuine gourmet camping food on our kitchen counter. He said he would eat the bark off a tree before he ever put a single one of my beanie weenies in his mouth. He doesn’t know what he’s missing!

I strike a match and it ignites on the second strike. I used a flat grey rock that I had picked up after I first got to the campsite. I was going to put my name and the date on it and leave it behind, but I thought better and decided it probably wasn’t a good idea to deface this beautiful forest, so I just shoved it in my back pocket and forgot about it, until now. I sure am glad I did that because if it wasn’t for that rock and Eric’s matches, I probably wouldn’t be about to take a bite of these mouthwatering, sweet and sour, molasses flavored beanie weenies. Their savory-sweet flavor is like heaven to my tongue. They are the perfect temperature too, just warm enough to heat up my insides and combat the chill that is creeping in as the sun slowly sets.

Realizing I am about to lose my daylight I pull out my leather-bound journal and write a few pages in the story I have been working on. This is the whole reason I came out here in the first place. I wanted to get “in-touch” with nature and experience what my character is going through. Well, not everything she is going through. I could do without experiencing being lost in the woods with a dead battery in my phone and a hillbilly cannibal after me. A loud snap somewhere in the forest off to my right catches my attention. I swallow my heart back in my chest where it belongs and shake my head, exasperated at myself for letting my imagination get away with me.

I add another line in my book:

Heather is so immersed with writing in her journal trying to forget the fact that she is lost in the woods that she doesn’t see the man behind the tree watching her with hungry eyes.

There is another snap, this time behind me, but I ignore it and continue writing:

She drops her pen and reaches to pick it up. While bent over she sees movement through her wall of hair. She stands up and pretends to look down like she is dusting off her pen, her eyes cut to the side and she sees the scraggly haired dirty man, who is now twenty yards away, crouched behind her tent watching her intently. She grabs her phone from her pocket and touches the screen, but nothing happens. It’s dead! She begins to panic but tamps it down knowing she is running out of time. Pretty soon he is going to realize that she knows he is there. She has to make a decision, and fast! A million thoughts run through her mind and she quickly muddles through them all hoping to find something that will help her situation. Before she can come up with anything a hand grabs her by the hair and yanks her to the ground, causing her to lose her grip on her phone. Her scalp burns as she’s dragged by the hair through the woods. She reaches up and tries to grab at her hair to lessen the pain, but she let’s go as a sharp object, presumably a rock, slices into her back. She lets out an agonizing scream, and the man stops. He looks back and down and a wicked smile spreads across his face. She is frozen, unable to move from the fear. She watches in horror as he bends down, then licks his lips, and takes a huge juicy bite out of the exposed flesh of her belly.

Something lands at my feet and I jump sideways, falling off the log that I had been using as my bench. My book flies out of my hands and I hear an “oof” as it hits someone. I quickly scramble backward like a crab, away from the sound. I hear a loud “thump” right before my world spins, and I lose my balance. My arms slide out from under me and I collapse to the leafy ground. I ran into a tree! A damn tree! Now my head is pounding, but I don’t have time to analyze the pain because the heavy crunch of leaves reminds me that I am not alone. I spring to my feet like a grasshopper and take off running, but before I get too far my foot slips out from under me and I land with a loud THUD…. a “BrrrAAP trumpets out of my ass… Booming laughter explodes from behind me. I turn towards the noise and my eyes widen as I spot my husband bent over at the waist wheezing with laughter at was what just the first fart I have ever let loose in front of him. My face flushes with embarrassment. “B-b-beanie w-w-weenies” I sputter, trying to regain some sense of modesty back. My heart still pounds from the threat of being chased by a murderous hillbilly. “I brought you some REAL food.” He smirks, obviously struggling to control his amusement. I sigh. 18 years of carefully holding in my farts around this man and it was all ruined by just a single can of beanie weenies and an overactive imagination. I close my eyes and shake my head, there will be no more beanie weenies for me. When I open my eyes again, I see my husband standing over me with an outstretched hand. I take it, and as I am standing back up, he lets out one the biggest, loudest farts that makes my own fart sound like a tiny little mouse squeak. We both fall back to the ground laughing hysterically in each other’s arms, and I think to myself, “God, I love this man so much!”.