This tale started out as Flash Fiction, then morphed into a short story. The jury’s still out on what it does next.

The Boy in the Tree

Noah was seven, and I was nine when Ma and Pa bought the Hennessey’s big old place. Got it at a steal, too. Distressed sale, the agent called it. A divorce brought on by a family tragedy. But that didn’t bother Pa none. One man’s tragedy’s another man’s treasure, he’d gloat.

And it was. Eight bedrooms, three living rooms, and a kitchen the size of Long Island. But it was the outside that fired us kids up the most. It had a pine forest crawlin’ with Robin Hood’s merry men, a wild pond awash with pirates and Kraken, and a jungle worthy of Tarzan.

Although Pa didn’t much care for the jungle bit – Vietnam on steroids, he called it. He threatened to torch it on more’n one occasion, but we played there every day, so Ma forbade him.

For me, it was the lure of the bug-infested undergrowth. For Noah, it was the guavas. He went crazy for them. Just ripped into ‘em with his teeth. Not me, though. To me, their pink insides looked more flesh than fruit. 

I can’t say exactly when Noah began to change. I mean, all kids change. But he really changed. His mouth turned down, his nose sharpened, and his cheekbones rode high and mighty. His eyes went from little boy blue to alligator-green. He became mean. 

Growin’ up next to him, I guess I didn’t see it at first. But two years later, we bumped into Mrs. Hennessey at Marvin’s Five and Dime, and I’ll never forget the look in her eyes. 

Deep down, I guess I knew Noah was changing, but it was only when I found the gravestone at the foot of the guava tree that I knew why.