The Stinging Tree

Brad walked to the end of Range Road. There was a creek here. Hooper’s Creek. It was an excellent place to swim. There was plenty of water, and it wasn’t too cold.

He pushed past the barrier and sat down on the end of the road, on the top of the wall. The road stopped here, at the creek; and there was a concrete wall, like a cliff, to the water below.

Once, years ago, there had been a bridge here. Thick beams of wood had crossed the creek from wall to wall. But they’d been washed away in a flood, a long time ago. Brad couldn’t even remember the wooden bridge. It’d been gone since before he was born. And the concrete walls were all that was left.

The water was clear and cool. It rolled slowly over stones and leaves, past roots and moss-rotting logs. In the shade of the forest, it looked calm and smooth and cold. And Brad could see small fish swimming across and across under the water.

It was hot.

He got up, and he was about to jump in when suddenly, he heard something. In the forest across the creek, there was a sound.

Brad looked up.

Someone was standing on the road, on the other side of the bridge.

It was a boy. A boy with blond hair.

He looked just like Brad. Exactly like Brad. So much like Brad that it was like looking into a mirror.