JG Wells: Writer, Blogger, World Traveller, and now, Smackdown Contender. Behold the 8th Entry! "Fertile Ground"

This is JG Wells. As you can tell from the photo, (a lake in Slovenia, she tells us), she's just killed someone. Any time you're caught standing near a lake, so this exercise has informed us, you're guilty of murder. Or at least manslaughter. Anyway, JG Wells is an old high-school friend of Hinesy's, and found Hinesy's lil' blog through newcomer Abe Jacquot's wife's blog (how many degrees is that?). She currently resides in the Netherlands with her fiance, and happens to run a blog herself (which you can visit here). Wow. The eighth entry. Can we make it nine before the end of March? (Craig?) Anyway, enough with my rambling preamble! Now, prepare yourself, for the EIGHTH entry in the March Literary Smackdown! (And, as an overly friendly note to those Smackdown participants who have not yet voted on the other entrants, you still have about two weeks before the end of the month to get those votes in. The mo' opinions the mo' better.) Okay. Now read and judge JG's "Fertile Ground".

Fertile Ground
by JG Wells

Jerome eased himself down on a flat, ochre-colored rock that jutted from the cliff-side, hovering over the lake’s edge. He let his dusty leather hiking boots dangle over the precipice, enjoying the cooling air circling around his sweaty, dirt-streaked calves. It had been an exertive hike around the lake that morning –one of the best in a long, long time. He spent a lot of time in the forest around Lake Merabet and knew the hiking trails and off-road paths, better than anyone. Although he lived in a typical, small-town house, with a well-manicured yard, Lake Merabet and its surrounding forest of towering trees felt more like home. Here, there was no yelling, only the whisper of the wind in the tree branches and chatter of birds and squirrels as they busied themselves overhead. Here, there was no pain and bruises (unless you made them yourself), only the caressing smoothness of silky water against your skin. Here, there were hardly ever people around. Jerome had developed an embarrassing stutter as a child and although he had better control of it now, he still felt more comfortable in the wilderness than with people.

The surface of the lake below him was as smooth as glass and a peaceful, restful green. This was his spot. He had found it several years ago. It was very private. You had to climb a steep, poorly marked path to get there. Most people just passed it by. Unlike the sandy beaches of Miami or southern California, the lake beach below him consisted of a multitude of rocks and pebbles in a variety of shapes, colors and sizes. Some of the rocks were smooth, flat and round –perfect for skipping far across the lake’s surface. Others were jagged and sharp –treacherous to walk on. Often, Jerome would strip, swim in the velvety waters and walk across the beach with bare feet, heedless of the hazardous stones.

Jerome took off his 49ers cap, laid his back against the sun-drenched rock and spread his arms out onto the mossy, lime earth beside him. He closed his eyes and listened to the calming sound of the water’s edge lapping against the rocks below.

Before long, his skin began to prickle with gooseflesh and he felt the disturbance before he heard the group of voices headed in his direction. Jerome quickly retracted his feet and crawled backwards, crouching behind the trunk of a nearby redwood tree. The voices were coming from below him and to the left. A few minutes later, the owners of the voices emerged. Three boys, he recognized two of them from school –idiot jocks. He hoped they would pass by, but instead they stopped just below the rock outcropping where Jerome had been lying. He hated them –they were all the same with their swaggering and posturing. Now they were ruining his morning of triumph. This was his beach, his special place –they had no right to intrude with their plastic coolers of Coors and loud, obnoxious voices. Defeated, he listened for a few minutes to their braggart’s exploits of conquests and scoffed before retreating backwards into the safe concealment of the forest. For all their allegations of sexual prowess, they might as well be impotent. Jerome had discovered a pleasure a thousand times more exciting and rewarding than any post-cum release. And it was only here, in the peace of the redwood trees, where the fertile earth covered his secrets, where the viridian water reflected his pleasure that he could bask in it.