I was camping in the Canadian wilderness with my dad. We sat that night, huddled around the orange flames of a fire. I ate the sweet, juicy, tender bird we had caught. I looked at the luscious green forest and sighed in satisfaction.

     "Go get some fire wood," Dad said.

     "Alright," I replied. I stood up, grabbed the flashlight, and walked into the trees.

     The trees seemed to reach out at me as I heard a rush of howling wind. Then I heard a booming, crack, crack! I shone my light on a bush and almost fainted as a black shape stepped out. Then I realized all it was a skunk. It had a white stripe that made it appear as if it had run under a newly painted white fence.

     "Hey, little guy," I joked as the fright drained away.

     Then suddenly the black and white demon lifted up its tail and sprayed me with a long line of green, green gas. I had never smelled anything so nasty since I had opened a package of week old cheese. The skunk now looked as if it were a monster with long sharp teeth. The fur raised on its back and it darted at me. I ran fearing, fearing another attack. I tripped and fell to the ground, tasting dirt. I woke up to see the back of the car. Obviously Dad had found me and had decided to go home. I, Logan Vincent, I was going home. I was going home. Home.