Brave the White Out

He gulped back his fear of the shrieking lady and ran back into the snow. This woman was floating, and she was partially invisible and she was there in front of him.

He now had a perfect view of her gaunt yet hauntingly beautiful face, like a supermodel withering right before him. Her eyes were empty and cold and her hands out stretched as she continued to wail and shriek. He soon found himself on his knees before her.

"What do you want?" He coughed out.

She stopped. "Save my world and your soul..."

"Save your world? My soul? But I'm no hero..." He tried to stand, but found himself bound to the kneeling position.

"You who have been beaten cannot be reduced any further. Your soul will explode in a rage here or in my world, here it will crush your very being in my world it can grow." The shrieking woman's face contorted to a wicked smile.

"I don't want to go to your world!" He shouts angrily, the strangeness of the emotion hits him like a brick as he stands up.

"You do not get to choose..." The woman grasps his shoulder and all at once the world is rising up to meet him as he meets the side of a steep his with a jarring impact. He rolls further down the hill a his shoulder snaps heartily against a large tree, but thankfully doesn't break. He continues to roll unceasingly until his back slams full **** into a log, and again he find that he thankfully still has unbroken bones.

After several minutes of catching his breath and regaining what sense he can, he pushes himself to his feet and stares at the almost alien forest before him. Almost alien, for it still had a familiar look to it and he could identify more than a few trees around him. He blinked and shook his head before he tried to remember what all the survival shows on TV had taught him. Unfortunately all he could remember was to keep your hopes and and make the best of what you had.

He emptied his pocket and was thankful to find that at the very least he had a mostly full lighter that he had taken from his mother. His now pulverized cell phone, which could still be useful. He also had a few pencils and crumpled pieces of paper. Lastly he had his carving knife, his tool of choice for the art he labored for.

He looked at what constituted his survival kit and openly sighed. Then a pain filled groan came from behind him.