"Present! Fire!" Smoke erupted from the line of yellow, orange, and white. Several meters ahead, men dressed in violet and indigo fell to the ground, clutching various parts of their bodies. Their comrades, now finished reloading, took aim. Just as they fired, an enormous quake shook the ground. Followed by another. And another. Suddenly, as though she had materialized out of nowhere, a beautiful woman was upon them. A beautiful, enormous woman. She was nearly immeasureable, her foot able to crush more than two hundred men. She looked down at the facing regiments, who were now beginning to scatter, with almost a bored expression.
"Yeah," she said into the phone held to her face.
"Oh, no it's nothing. Just some bugs in my kitchen."
She raised her bare foot above the fleeing troops. Slowly, she brought it down on a particularly large cluster. The men looked up and screamed before they were completely snuffed out. The woman stood for a moment, continuing her conversation.
"So are you still going out with us? This Friday. Yeah! Becca will be there too."
With that, she plodded off to some other room of the house, leaving the rest of the combatants to scramble back to their respective cities. Uniforms of both violet and yellow clung to her foot, stuck there by the pulverized remains of the soldiers that once wore them.



"We lost 13 men in combat, 27 to Her, and
5 are missing in action. Another 21 are injured or ill. In total, the number of combat-ready men is 158."
Colonel Breckins looked around at the yellow-clad gentlemen around him. Some looked back expectantly, others looked away, predicting rage. He sighed.
"Go ahead and begin recruitment. If the Truitans
catch us in open conflict again, we may not be
able to hold our own."
"Sir, Colonel Herring of the 5th Rifle Corps is here to see you. Should I let him in?"
Another sigh.
"Yeah, go ahead."
In walked a man also dressed in the same yellow coat and white trousers as the rest of them. However, instead of orange, his jacket was trimmed with the finest green. He twisted his impressive moustache as he surveyed Breckins' office.
"Would you gentlemen mind leaving us?" he asked.
The various aides and officers glanced around nervously before looking askingly at their own colonel. Breckins nodded, and the men filed out of the office. Herring, now twirling his moustache around his finger, waved his hand towards one of the newly available seats.
"Do you mind?"
"Not at all."
Herring sat down and picked up a bottle and a cup from a nearby table. He poured himself a drink and took a sip. Colonel Breckins watched this from the other side of his desk. He had always held a slight disdain for Herring, who's almost carefree attitude he felt had no place in the Army of the Nation of Benevol. Even now, the man was examining the room with a look on his face that seemed to say, "Is this really your office? This hovel?" However, the decorations that hung from his jacket spokeotherwise; they told of distuingished bravery, excellent leadership, and cunning strategy. There were a few that Breckins had never seen on any other man, causing him to wonder what sort of ability one needed to acquire them. He sighed again, and began rubbing his temples.
"What do you need, Herring?"
"It's not what I need, it's what I hear you need; men. Something about losing more men to Her than in combat."
"So what? Isn't that normal when she comes stomping around?"
Herring shrugged.
"I wouldn't know," he said. "I've never lost a man to Her. But, I do know of a way that will make it so She will become a nonissue."
Breckins was doubtful, but humored him.
"I'm listening."



Just three days ago, Harold Firth had been a
simple cadet on the last leg of his basic training. Now however, he was hiking alongside his comrades, ready to face the dastardly Truitans. A freshly polished rifle hung from his shoulder, and at his left side was a short sabre. On his back was a leather pack, which conatined a canteen and a set of basic supplies. A shiny powder horn hung from his right side; he had been lucky enough to be granted a freshly minted one.

With no warning, his commander held up a series of hand signals. In response, the unit split apart into formation. It was time to skirmish. Harold took position in a wide trench - the space in between two tiles - with three other men. In the distance, he could see the two combat forces lining up. Using the forest of carpet to the left of the kitchen, where the woman sits at a table to eat, the skirmishers had managed to come up behind the Truitan force, though they were still a fair distance away. When the time came, they would swiftly silence the enemey artillery. From that position, they would harass the main force with potshots. The rest of the Benevol forces had wisely chosen to take a defensive position, with their backs to the unclimbable wall that was the giantess' counter.

To Harold, minutes passed like passed like hours. The anticipation of battle turned into anxiousness. Then, he heard a distant explosion, followed by four or five others.
"Our cannons have opened fire," one of the men whispered.
Two of the shots ploughed through a line of purple and indigo, instantly killing all they managed to hit. A closer series of explosions proved that the Truitan artillery had begun firing as well. Harold watched as the two militaries marched towards each other and, when they were close enough, began firing volleys. He thought to himself how glad he was not to be a man of the line.

After several hours of fighting, the skirmishers were ordered forward. They moved quickly, trying to cover as much ground as possible before the artillery guard noticed them. They were almost within firing range when an unearthly thundering sounded in the distance. The ground quaked and within moments, the giantess was upon the battleground. Either unaware, uncaring, or both, she stepped right into the midst of it, her bare feet crushing hundreds of men. A cry of "Retreat!" came from the commander's mouth, but Harold was dumbstruck; this was the first time he had seen Her. Though her clothes were foreign to him, her beauty was rivaled by none of the women he'd known. That was also true of her size. He watched the impossibly large woman pull a package of cookies out of the cabinet above her head. She opened it with a mighty tug, picked out the biggest cookie, and bit into it. Crumbs rained down to the chaos below, further adding to the death toll. She absentmindedly shifted her footing, and curled and uncurled her toes. She finished the cookie and wiped her mouth before choosing another and starting the process again.

Harold was shocked out of his stupor when awayward crumb, propelled when she wiped her mouth, landed only several feet from him. He ran after his comrades, who were instinctually scrambling towards the carpeting. They were quite aware that it offered no actual safety, but they were driven towards it by fear and panic. Harold chanced one look back. The goddess was putting away the remaining cookies. He knew they would not make it to their destination before she was finished. He could feel her take two steps in his direction. Her leg appeared far above and infront of him as she took a step into the carpet. Harold stopped in his tracks and watched her body sail over him. He stared in amazement as she sat on the chair at her dining table, picked up a book, and began to read. Exhausted, Harold slumped to the ground and triedto come to terms with what he had just witnessed.

“Three days, Smalls!” the man bellowed. “We've been wandering for three days!”
“I know, Guile! Just give me a minute to-”
“We are out of rations! Our canteens are all but empty!”
“Guile, just-”
“Admit, Smalls, you have no idea where we are!”
“Carl, will you calm him down please! I'm trying to think of a way to-”
“I think he's right, Goody.”
“... What?”
“I think he's right, Goody. You have no idea how to get us home. We're stranded.”
Smalls stared incredulously at his friends. Herod Guile, short, slim, seething with rage. Carlton Michael Ellis, dark-haired, average build, appearing calm but no less angry. How could they do this to him? He was the one that had kept them alive thus far. He clenched his fists.
“Fine,” he growled through gritted teeth. “It's getting dark. We can camp for the night, and in the morning we can decide what to do.”

Lieutenant Goodwin “Goody” Smalls stared forward into the darkness that surrounded he and his comrades, their fire having long since burned up the few bits of fuel they could find. His long, thin frame was curled up in his sleeping bag, trying to conserve his body heat. He was silent, save for the occasional growling of his stomach. His hunger was not what kept him awake, however; it was his thoughts. They feverishly entered and exited his mind seemingly on their own, with no clear direction. His emotions were no better. One moment he was furiously blaming Ellis for their situation, even when he knew Carlton had about as much control over it as he did. Then he'd feel immense fear. The three men had no idea where they were. All they knew was that they were exposed, somewhere in Her house, and if She decided to come near them...
Still, other times he only felt hunger. Incredible hunger. He couldn't remember having ever felt the need for food this much. The only time that came close was once when he was a child, during the Wintreslewe Festival. His mother had not allowed him to eat for the entire day, all while the smell of cooking foods wafted lazily through the air. He could almost smell them now; beef slowly roasting, vegetables boiling, pastries and deserts baking, chicken grilling over enormous pits...

Suddenly, all was light. Goody shielded his eyes from the brightness. The world shook, and he realized what was happening. She was home. He instinctively jumped to his feet, as did the Guile and Ellis, and looked into the sky. He couldn't see her – yet – but he could hear her. There was the sound of some kind of clasp being undone, and then the sound of a massive amount of flesh sliding free of something. A huge object, a black party sandal, flew far above them and landed with earthquake-like intensity some distance away. Another quickly followed. Squinting into the vast sky, he could see her massive, womanly. She was wearing a white dress, and moaned as she flexed her liberated toes. She took a step forward.

Reacting with panicky instinct, the three men scrambled away from her. They were thrown to the floor as her foot plummeted to the ground somewhere far behind them. Goody picked himself off the ground and spun around to see Guile helping Ellis to his feet. Another earth-rending quake nearly brought them to their knees once more. The sky grew darker. She was almost upon them. Goody realized one more step from her would be their end. A shadow fell over his comrades. His eyes met theirs'. A ceiling of flesh descended, obliterating them instantly. Two walls crashed down on either side of him.

His heart pounding, Smalls fell to his knees. He had survived. Again. He looked to his left, to his right, and then up. Above him, the goddess was using her cell phone, smiling every so often and oblivious to the two lives she had just snuffed out underneath her. She would likely be here awhile. He could see up her dress, but her face was hidden behind the horizontal mountains that were her breasts. By his reckoning, he was between her toes. He looked forward to where they met and became her foot. Blood leaked out from underneath, and bits of viscera clung to the ground. Tentatively, he stood and stepped forward. As if in a trance, Goody stared directly at what remained of his former comrades as he walked forwards. His hands clutched his chest as if he could stop his heart from pounding. Though he had never told them so, they were the closest things he'd had to friends. The three had been through training together, and had spent a lot of time together over the short years they'd been enlisted. Looking down, he spied a clump of what could only be described as meat. Goody dropped down to his knees again. An image flashed through his mind. A sinister image. His stomach growled in response. Slowly, carefully, he picked up the bloody bit of what was once his friend. He took a small bite. Blood flowed from the still-warm clump, staining the front of his face and uniform.
Yes, Goody thought, it had been three days.