Mystery Writer Leaps from the Turnbuckle and Dives Into the Middle of the Literary Smackdown!

One more entry folks. This writer wishes to remain anonymous, so this person won't require much in the way of introduction. Without further ado, Mystery Writer jumps into the fray that is the Literary Smackdown! Don't worry about pulling your punches. This writer can take it. So sharpen your 1-10 scales and judge lest ye be judged!

Untitled
by Anonymous

Daniel pushed through the brush, his breath more difficult with each step. Thin, whip-like branches slashed back into his face and arms, leaving momentary weals, each more painful than the next. His black army boots were becoming caked with a second layer of dark black mud. Daniel raised his forearm again protecting his eyes from the swift whip return of the branch as he pushed aside another thick, thorn-covered bramble, living barbed wire still clinging to the recent black rain. He wiped water from his eyes, desperate to see farther into the woods. The path was lost, in the fading light and the darkening gray ceiling. The lake was somewhere in front, of that he was sure, he had been there a hundred times, maybe a thousand. It could only be a few more steps. His boot sunk into the soft ground kicking up forest floor decay. His blue jeans clung wet with mud and rain, a new weight for each step. The proud leather jacket forever ruined, sodden and heavy on his back. Each step closer, each step more hurried, more desperate.

He never saw it, a jagged time-worn stump, only a foot high, moss and forest trash hiding it from view. His boot crushed into and through the rotted stump. He could feel the soft wood collapse and he fell.

The fall was unprotected, sudden, and violent. There was no warning, he was not even able to utter a sound, his arms useless and offering no defense. His face slammed through the hard thorn covered wires, each strand, each hard thorn, pierced and then sliced, through his unprotected skin. He hit the ground with terrible force. The forest heard the breaking of branches and then a dull thud, and then stillness. A horrible empty stillness; nothing. It started to rain again.

Daniel first tasted dirt, then blood. He lay there with his face in the cold earth, his arm useless beside him, broken, something else hidden beneath him pressed into his chest. The gray ceiling gone, replaced by a ceiling lower and now a shade of black, darkened, it pressed Daniel harder into the ground. He waited, soon he could move again, but now he just needed to close his eyes and rest.

He could smell the lake. He wondered why he could smell it now, perhaps it was because he was closer to the ground. He knew it had rained more and then stopped and perhaps started again, he thought it might be raining now. He knew he was close. Rotting water they had called it, a time each year when the lake, its water heated by the summer sun, exchanged places with deeper cooler water, the thermal layers equalizing. The deep water stilled and, not having moved during the summer months, was pulled from the depths, bringing with it bottom decay, rot and a smell, both familiar and safe. It was a time of year the lake belonged only to him.

Daniel rolled to the side, and tried to sit up, he could move his arm so perhaps it was not really broken, just sprained. It was good not to taste dirt any longer, but he spit mucus-thick blood for some time.

He did not remember even rolling over, or sitting up but he stood now, the lake before him. The dull black surface unable to reflect, the water barely moved even close to the knotted, ragged-cut roots and ended before the roots could touch the twice fetid waters. How many summers did he sit just here, listening to the distant gleeful sounds wishing for his alone time. His time to laugh at trees.