I am digging through an archive of writing that I compressed with a now defunct form of Stuffit (remember that, Mac users?) and finding odd stories here and there. I don't know if Steven King had penned "Stand by Me" (was that the title?) before I wrote this one. I wouldn't have bothered it if I had heard of it. Anyway, my body isn't dead, it's naked. I'm not even sure if this story even goes anywhere, but the writing seems controlled, although I seem to be channeling Hemingway in it. No idea if the story is successful or not, or if it's even finished.  I just hate throwing away good words, even if they're badly used. Read at your own risk.

     The four boys stood under the bridge looking into the current of the stream. It lay wide and smooth in the earth and wound its way up through the valley to where they now stood. It gained speed as it tumbled boulders and raced through deep slopes as it entered the foothills; before being broken by the floor of the valley— becoming tame and shallow and divided into small pools. This was where the boys planned to hunt crayfish.

   It was early Sunday morning and the hum of automobile tires had not yet begun to reverberate down from the bridge. Only the sound of water filled the cement walls as the boys stood watching the stream. They were two sets of brothers who often played together in the hills, blazing trails and battling in mock wars as indians or soldiers, but they had no thoughts of play now—for they knew this was where the Parsons boy had been found.

   There had been no heavy rains in a week and the stream was low, and they could have easily crossed it without wetting their clothing. The Parsons boy had been in the stream during the rainy season; when the rains pounded the sides of houses at night and the gutters grew thick with algae, and the stream swelled until even boulders had been moved when they returned again to play. Though they were only nine and ten years old, they always remembered they should never go in the stream during the rainy season.

The Parsons boy had been fifteen, but he must have been crazy when he went into the stream. They often wondered why he had never thought about a flash flood coming, because they thought about it when even the lightest drizzle fell on the valley. Even on clear days Ivan would look cautiously up the stream and say, "I hope there's not a flash flood." His older brother, Steven, would grumble, "No." But they would still think about it for a minute. They would think about how the flash flood could rise in an instant and wash you away. They imagined it as a great torrent several stories high, appearing from behind the bend of the old church, where it could surprise you, and carry you down here beneath the bridge. And they would often think about the Parson's boy before they again returned to their play, and how they, too, might be found dead and battered and white as toadstools.

 "That's where he was." said Steven. He was barefoot, and his foot curved around a rock as he climbed it above the stream. "Right there." He pointed with a reed to the far side the bridge. Nestled close the water was a dark, oblong hole where concrete had broken from its side. The boys stood silently for a moment considering the spot. None of them knew for certain this was where the Parsons boy had been found; they only knew that he had been found under the bridge, and this was enough to set their imaginations to work. They usually moved through the bridge without speaking of the Parsons boy, content to pass under it without invoking thoughts of him or the flash flood, but today they had planned a serious exploration of the stream. 

   "Lets go," said Billy. He was nine years old and the meekest of the boys. He was thin and tired more easily than the others, and was usually content to dally in one spot throwing stones or digging mud holes for the water to fill in. He was usually not the one to want to continue on, but he wanted to move from the bridge because it frightened him. 

   "Wait a minute," said Tommy. Tommy waded into the stream until the water flowed over his tanned ankles and he bent, flipping up a wide, flat rock. A bullfrog tadpole, it's head fat and round as a small plum, wiggled out from under the stone. Tommy cupped his hands and thrust them into the stream after the tadpole, but he missed it, and raised only a dull handful of water. He took another step and the tadpole darted out from the muddy cloud he had stirred in the water. It swam further out into the stream, slithering sideways over a pebbly shallow, then slipped down into a small eddy formed by rocks. It circled the dark green pool, then dropped to the bottom, disappearing into the shadow of the breakwater.

        Tommy looked back over his shoulder and saw his younger brother watching him anxiously. Billy had the empty look on his face he got when he was scared. Steven and Ivan also stood watching him, probably wondering if he would dare move any closer toward the spot they had just named the Parsons boy's resting place. Tommy reached down and plucked a white stone from the water. He raised it over his head and flung it loosely into the eddy, once more sighting the tadpole as it darted across the bottom of the pool. Tommy turned and shrugged his shoulders at the others.

     "O.k.," he said, "Let's go." He waded out of the stream and looked at his brother,
     "Fat tadpole," he said smiling.

     The boys straightened their canvas knapsacks on their shoulders and did not look back as they walked out from the bridge into the sun. They walked quickly on the path beside the stream for this was where its banks were sloped with loose stone, and was difficult to climb if you wanted to get out. They did not like this part of the stream because you could not see out of it, except for the sky and highest points of the mountains which seemed far away and eclipsed by the rocky banks. They kept their heads down and did not say much, occasionally kicking a stone as they walked, keeping up a swift, sturdy pace. 
     They manueverd a long turn in the stream, and they could see the greyed steeple of the old missionary church thrust into the sky. The slats of a window were broken out, and a crow sat there in the dark enclosure plucking under its wing. They  walked silently for a few more minutes and soon the bank began to drop from around them. They were able to climb boulders and peer above the embankment, and when they did, they saw that they were nearing the graveyard. They were glad to be out of the steep inclines, and they breathed easier, slowing their pace and taking extra time to leap between rocks. Billy picked up a piece of flint and tossed it onto the stream. The stone broke six expanding circles, then slowed and sank beneath the surface.  
       They walked a little further along the stream to a place where the water ran deep. The boys peered into the slow-running water where it pooled in shadow behind boulders, knowing that was where the crayfish like to hide.
  "There's one," called Billy, spotting one of the dark-red creatures before it withdrew back beneath a stone, darting in like a devil's tongue.
      "There's another!" called Ivan, spotting a crayfish as it quickly shot out a claw and grabbed a small chicken feather tumbling in an underwater eddy. There was a farmhouse not far up the stream where someone raised chickens in coops. The boys had never liked that part of the stream. The rusted coops had been built partially over the stream so the chicken dropping would fall into the water and the stream there had a acrid stench.. Collapsed feathers stuck in slick patches to the surface of rocks, white and sheenless. They boys usually turned around before they reached the place because their stream seem unclean, spoiled and dank
      "Let's go up the bank," called Tommy.

      The boys turned from the stream and climbed its sides. The bank was low and grassy now, and they easily mounted it in a few strides.

         The graveyard had been established long ago and it spread far into the distance, curving upward and rolling out of sight beyond the crest of a hill. The tombstones set nearest to the stream were the oldest stones, and they faintly revealed the names of those laid there. Time had reduced their carvings to frail scrawls, as though the ill had themselves worked the stones. Before the first set rose buck-tooth from the ground, there was a flat of land where trees stood in uneven columns. The boys often stopped here beneath the trees. The grass that grew under them was not as neatly clipped as the grass of the graveyard, but was long and smooth and preserved a deep green by the shade of the trees. It was the perfect grass to lay in on a hot day, absorbing its coolness through your skin, and it had long stems to pull from the ground and chew upon as you lay there. The boys liked it here and it had become one of their favorite, secret spots. They would often lie here for hours naming cloud configurations, or telling stories of their friends and neighbors, feeling the breezes from the mountain roll over them and watching it send ripples through the long grasses on the other side of the stream. Sometimes they would climb into the trees, looking out on the valley below from their branches, trying to name the places that they knew in the distance.

     Steven pulled his knapsack from his back and dropped it to the thick grass. He leaned back and propped himself against a birch tree. He pulled a papery strip of bark from the tree and bit into it, wedging between his teeth. He whistled against it. Tommy walked beside him and jumped at a low branch, catching it in his hands. He hung from the branch and bounced it with his weight, the leaves brushing against each other with a pleasant rushing sound.

    "Do you want to eat now?" asked Tommy, hanging from the branch, His toes raking the ground.

     "I don't know. It's early," said Steven. "Do you want to eat?"

     "I'm hungry," said Ivan, brushing his hair back from his forehead. He was nearsighted and wore glasses which were beveled thickly in toward his eyes. His father was Philipino, and he had rich, dark skin, as did his brother. But Ivan had inherited his mother's fine brown locks and they constantly blew down over his eyes. The older boys pretended not to hear him.

     "I guess we could eat," said Steven.

     "If you want to, I will," said Tommy dropping from the branch. It snapped upward, tumbling broken twigs to the grass.

     "Sure," said Steven. 
     Billy and Ivan smiled at each other and sat down in the shade of a guava tree. The tree was the oldest there and was badly palsied by the years, yet still had enough life to bear fruit each season. It was the boy's favorite tree on the flat because the fruit was sweet and delicious and they often ate from it during the summer. Tommy looked to where the pink globes hung and he took a quick inventory of the lower branches

     "Why don't we pick some guavas?"

     Steven looked up from the ground. He had already unwrapped a tunafish sandwich and did not seem anxious to leave his meal.

 "Alright," said Steven.

     Steven was the tallest and had the longest arms, so he always did the picking. Steven pawed for a branch to grip and climbed into the tree. Tommy grabbed Steven's ankles to steady him. Steven dropped a uava and Ivan swung his knapsack around to catch it, but he missed.

⁄     "Use your hands," Tommy grunted, laboring to keep Steven aloft.

     "O.k.!" said Ivan.

     Steven knocked two more guavas from the tree. One burst with a bright splash of seed upon the ground, but Billy caught the other fruit denting it only slightly with his hands. He gingerly placed the guava on the grass, and looked up at Steven.

   "Drop more," he called.

     There was a short, silent pause from the cover of the tree, then Steven began to scream.
       "Let me down! Let me down!" 
         Steven gyrated wildly on the branch and the old tree shook as Steven beat madly at his arms.
   "What's wrong!" shouted Tommy, strugging to hold Steven's ankles. Suddenly, Steven pitched himself backward, dragging Tommy hard to the ground with him.  Steven rolled away, slapping at his arms and chest.

     "Ants!" he screamed.

     Hearing this, Tommy jack-knifed upright and began to rake jaggedly at his hair. The younger boys stood transfixed. 
      "Are you o.k.? Billy asked nervously.

     Steven jumped up from the ground. He ground his foot angrily into the grass, mashing the ball of his foot upon his attackers.

     "Stupid ants!" He slapped the top of his shoulder and looked down into his palms. Several red bumps had already begun to rise between the fleshy parts of his fingers. "Stupid ants," he repeated, but his lips weakened as he said it.

     "You o.k.?" asked Tommy getting up. "Did they get you?"

     "A couple times. "Lets go eat," he said. 

         They walked from under the tree and sat down, leaving the guavas lying in the grass.

            "I hate ants,' said Steven.
         "Yeah," said Tommy.
           "You guys looked like crazy men," said Ivan.  
          The older boys eyed at him for a second, then they all laughed together.
          "I was going crazy," said Steven.

             "Steven, you looked like Boo when fell from the tree-house," Billy laughed, paddling his arms and legs in the air in mock imitation.
              No one laughed at this and Billy quickly realized he had raised a bad subject.  He nervously tapped the toes of his sneakers together. 
            Boo was a cat that belonged to Steven and Ivan. The cat had not actually fallen from the tree house. The boys had wanted to see if it was true that cats always landed feet down, and they had dropped him upside-down from the tree-house. The cat had landed upright in the grass, but  slinked cautiously around the boys ever since. 

        Steven glanced at Ivan, who sat sullenly pulling at the grass.

"Boo's gone," said Ivan.

"He musta run away," Steven said, looking his brother.

"No he didn't."

"What happened to Boo?" asked Tommy.

"We don't know," said Steven.

"Mrs. Weber got him."

 "No," said Billy.

  "You don't know that."

  "Yes, I do," said Ivan, "She got him. She had him locked in her shed once, and called the pound to take him. Good thing he had tags, or he would have been gone."

 "I remember that," said Billy.

  "We think she poisoned Tracy's dog," said Tommy. "I was there with Tracy when Whitey came home. Whitey's mouth was foaming. Pretty soon he fell over and started shaking and he died before Mr. Alvey got home." Ivan glasses began to fog and Tommy regretted saying this. "Maybe Boo-Boo will come back," he offered slowly, "He runs away alot, doesn't he?"

"Not for this long."

"Our father said he'd `kill that crazy bitch', said Steven.

  "`Crazy bitch,' " the boys all repeated the words.

"He said she's 'insane.'"

 There was something disturbing about the word, something uneasy. It loosed in the boys horror-show images. They had seen of Mrs. Weber only once in their lives, spotting her through the thick rhododendron bushes which hedged her yard, but they were unable to decipher her as  "insane," They had only caught a half glance of her: a thin, unkept figure in a shapeless velvet dress, her face twisted by a scowl. She had never approached them, but they still avoided the boundaries of her home. 
   When they had finished their lunches, Tommy walked back to gather the guavas from the ground. He opened his knapsack and withdrew a coffee can he had brought to catch crayfish. He carefully placed two of the less-beaten guavas into  and walked back to the others who had gotten themselves ready to go.

 "I'm tired" said Billy. He was breathing heavily as he saddled his backpack.

     "We haven't gotten anywhere, yet," said Ivan.

     "I know."

     "We're going right up to the mountain," said Tommy, "Don't get tired. The chicken place isn't far from here," he said pointing to where a thicken of bamboo leaned over the stream, "After that we're not far from the woods."

     "Do we have to go past the chicken cages?" asked Ivan, polishing his glasses on his shirt

     Steven and Tommy looked at each other. They did not know another way up the stream.

     "Yeah," said Steven, "So what. Otherwise, we'll have to get back onto the road. This is the best way." He looked at Tommy. Tommy nodded at him.

 "All we have to do is get over the falls," said Tommy.

     "O.k.," said Ivan, "I'm still hungry, though."

     Tommy looked up to where the stream took a turn beyond the bamboo thicket. High on the bank, opposite the cages, stood a mango tree. Loose piles of mangoes lie beneath it.

     "Let's go up and get some of those," he said.

     "I'll wait here," said Billy.

 "Come on, Billy," said Steven. He stood up and jumped into the stream bed. "We'll get some mangoes to throw at the chicken cages." He laughed at the idea.

     Billy brightened, "O.K.," he said.
    The boys climbed slowly down the bank, Billy slipped once and fell, streaking the seat of his pants with brown mud. He felt a stab of shame as his brother looked at him disapprovingly. 

  Steven and Tommy walked ahead of the younger boys and crossed the stream to where the mango tree stretched over sky. A few fruit had fallen to the ground and Steven picked them up and dropped them into his knapsack. He began to toss fresh mangoes to the others. The mangoes were ripe and darkly spotted, and had a heavy, sweet smell. Tommy gathered a half dozen of the fruit in his arms. "We've got plenty now," he said.

     The boys walked down stream a few paces and climbed a mossy log which had fallen across the stream. They sat down on it and dangled their feet above the water. They began to tear the thick skin from the mangoes and syrupy juice ran onto their fingers as they bit into the soft pulp.

     "Um, good," said Ivan, his mouth slick with fruit.

     "Look at those crayfish."

     Steven raised a finger and pointed to where green stalks of water reeds intertwined with the bamboo. The shallow there pulsed with the crimson bodies; the armoured shells of the crayfish gleamed as they broke the water.

[1]Ω     "Look at all of them," said Ivan.

     Steven got on his knees and peered into the dense reeds. "What's that?" he said. He stood on the tree and squinted where the crayfish writhed. "What's that white thing?" Steven threw his mango at the reeds; it splashed behind the object, rocking it. The crayfish scattered into the dark water. Steven jumped from the tree and grabbed a mango from the bank. He heaved it at the spot. The mango hit the submerged object,  knocking it free of the reeds. It floated out into the current and began to drift toward them. As it neared the fallen tree, they saw the yellow points of a claw roll over in the water. The chicken bobbed upended and floated beneath their feet.

    "Oh," said Tommy, as he stared down into the empty eyes of the bird which lolled beneath the water. The three boys scrambled off the log and stood watching it as it was swept downstream.

     "The crayfish were eating it," said Billy.  

      "Let's keep going." said Steven, "I want to get past this place, just once." Tommy nodded at him. Steven slid down the stream bed and started toward the thicket of bamboo. He glanced into the reeds where the chicken had lain, but the water was empty now, only a few feather clung to the reeds. "Come on!" he called. The other boys followed him, and they crossed through the thicket. There was a steep bank so they had to keep close to the water. One the other side of the stream they could see the chicken coops raised from the ground on wooden poles. They could hear sharp clucking of the chickens, but they could not see any of the birds;  only the dull wire of the cages, dripping water, siloutted against the sun. 

 Despite the rain, the water seemed to run too slowly here, it was deep and stagnant, and it's rank surface covered the rocks. The tepid pool was fed by a slowly trickling waterfall where the rows of cages ended. The boys knew they would have to climb it to continue on. Thought of ascending the small falls brought some excitement. They had never climbed it before, and they soon would be in uncharted territory.

   The bank on which they walked was thick with undergrowth, and they had to move slowly toward the waterfall. The boys said nothing but kept moving along the bank till they reached its end. The water in the center of the falls moved slowly over lichen covered stones, but most of the other stones looked dry and scalable.

     "I'll go first," said Tommy. He pressed his palm against the side of the ledge and stepped onto a flat rock just beneath the water. The water was warm, and the rock felt slimey beneath his feet, but it put Tommy out far enough to climb onto the base of the waterfall. "Its easy," he called back.

˙   Steven went next, and soon stood beside Tommy. 

"Where are we?" asked Steven slowly.

   "I don't know," said Tommy. A thick row of bushes stood back from the stream and the could not see beyond it to orient himself to the road.

     "Help me up," Ivan called.

     Steven grabbed his arm and helped him beside him. Billy stepped hesitantly into the falls. He shuttered as his foot slipped into it's warmth.  He thought of the chicken floating beneath their legs.

"Where are we?" asked Steven slowly.

     "I don't know," said Tommy. A thick row of bushes stood back from the stream and the could not see beyond it to orient himself to the road.

     "Help me up," they heard Ivan call.

     The two older boys each took one of Ivan's hands and pulled him onto the ledge. Then they reached down for Billy, whose eyes went wide as he was lifted to the top of the falls.

 "Wow, weird," said Billy.

     They stood on the edge of a large cove. Its banks rounded outward on both sides and formed a perfect circle. The water was shallow, smooth and black, and the air strangely silent. A tiny island sat in center of the pond and rusted iron pagoda tilted on it. A ancient banyan tree loomed one of the banks, it was partly upended and a monsterous spray of roots tore fiercely at the ground. The vines of the tree fell over the cove, shrouding it from sunlight, and obscuring its opposite end as the vines just brushed the water.

     "It's spooky here," Billy said, as he studied the pond. "Where are we?"

     "Maybe near that lawyer's house," said Tommy, shaking his head. He leaned over the black water and tried to peer through through the rodendron bushes.

    "Hey, here guys," said Steven. He unslung his knapsack and poured out the mangoes he had gathered before. "Lets bombard those stupid chickens." He picked up one of the mangoes and tossed it in a high arc. It rustled through some tree branches and crashed into the chicken wire of the coops. There was a frenzy of squawking, feathers flew into the air and down onto the stream. Steven laughed. "Come on," he said. 

   The boys turned around and stood near the top of the waterfall. They each picked up a mango and tossed it at the coops. They hit the coops, splattering into showers of pulp. The boys all cheered. Steven shook out his knapsack, but there were no more mangoes.

     "Lets throw some rocks," said Steven, caught up with excitement.

î     "We might hit a chicken," said Billy.

     "Wait," said Tommy he turned around and knelt down and lifted the coffee can from his knapsack. He opened it, tilted the can, and the guavas he had retrieved spilt out. They had split open and they oozed from can. 

   "Damn," he said. Then Tommy heard a rustling sound and a tiny movement reflected in the corner of his eye. He looked up, over the black water of the cove, and saw the woman materialize.

     Mrs. Weber edged from the cover of a dark enclave. Through the shadow of the vines she was barely dicernable, only a spectral figure in motion. She held something, but Tommy could not make out what it was. He watched as a golden object—something long and angular—pushed it's way though a line of reeds, then he saw it was a frame. A heavy, gilded picture frame with nothing in it. A pair hands of held it through the reeds, then Mrs. Weber stepped through and he could see her clearly. She smiled across the water at him. She was horribly naked. Her breasts hung down unevenly on her chest. Her arms were cadaverous, ashen skin woven with sinew. Blue veins coursed the papery flesh of her legs and stomach. She stared at Tommy, her shining eyes locking his. She raised a white foot from the ground and guided it slowly through the frame, drawing it along her calf. She pulled it deliberately along  her bare leg until it rested between her thighs. She held it there. Her mouth widened and she began to laugh violently, loudly. 

The coarse laughter spun the other boys around, and then she ceased. Only the sound of trickling water rose from the stream as it decended the rocks. Tommy stood up, the coffee can slipping from his hand. Steven saw her and he grabbed for Ivan's  arm. Ivan's hand flew up to his mouth. Billy blinked once and took a step backwards, disappearing over the falls with a short, choking cry. 

Tommy broke and threw himself on his stomach, hanging himself over the rocks.‚

"Billy!" he screamed.

     "Bill-Leeeeeee."  Ms. Webber mocked mocked plea spindled out across the water of the cove. Mrs. Weber dropped the frame to the ground."Bill-Leeeeeee."

     "Billy!" Tommy shouted. His brother lie below, motionless in the water.

     "Let's go!" Steven pulled Ivan's face into his. Ivan looked into his eyes, unseeing. "LET'S GO, IVAN!" Steven shouted; he shook his brother. 

  Ivan's eye's roamed loosely then, propelled by fear, he threw himself on his stomach and began scrambling over the falls. "Careful, Ivan!" Steven shouted, after him.  

Steven turned around and stared at Mrs. Weber, for an instant they held each other's eyes, and she smiled at him. 

  Steven raised his chin and spit at her. "Crazy bitch!" he shouted. 

Mrs. Weber's eyes darkened with rage and she shrieked something deeply foul and incomprehensible to the boy.

  Steven grabbed the back of Tommy's shirt, "Come on, Tommy!" The two boys spun themselves around half-slid, half-fell down the rocks, feeling the stones tear at their elbows and their legs. Steven's belt caught on a protruding branch and he stuck to it. He tried to free himself and he tumbled from the ledge. He felt himself drop through the air and then the hard slap,  as he hit the water. There was a heavy smothering as water filled his ears and mouth. He seemed to be weighted, to be drawn down ino the thick, heavy water. The sinking stopped, and the water began to lift him up. His head broke through the surface and coughed out the stale water. He squeezed his eyes and saw Billy near him, clinging to a rock. There were tears in Billy's eyes.

"Help me, Steven," he choked, "I can't climb out."

     "O.K., Billy. Hang on, Billy." said Steven. He swam over to him. "Are you O.K."

     "Yeah.  I think so. I can't climb out." he said.

     They heard Tommy shout.,"I'm coming, guys!"  Toomy was running along the bank, ducking beneath bushes, with Ivan behind him.Tommy knelt down on top of the rock and took Billy's arm. He pulled his brother onto the bank. "Are you O.K.?" he asked, eyeing his brother. He pulled off Billy's knapsack "Are you hurt?" He looked at his brother's leg. There was a cut on his calf, but that seemed all.

     "I couldn't climb out." said Billy. Tommy shook his head. His brother had lost one of his shoes.  He smiled at Billy.

 "Nice fall,"  he said.

     "Yeah!" A tear rolled down Billy's  cheek.

     "Hey, How about me!" called Steven. He had pulled himself part way onto the rock, wet hair plastered his eyes. "Get me out of this lousy pond!" he shouted. Tommy helped him onto the bank. They looked at each other silently, and nodded, then question passed onto their faces.  

  A beating sound had begun above them in the trees.  They turned their eyes toward the sky.There was a silent moment as the leaves undulated in the treetops, pushed by a spiring wind. Then a thrashing sound filled the air, and it began to descend through the branches. It raced down through the trees, breaking into a shiver as tumbling water struck the leaves above them.  The sky grey dark, and a warm rain started to fall on the boys. Tommy turned to Steven. Water streamed down their faces, rolling along their noses, into their opened mouths. They looked at the stream, watching its surface blur as it trapped the rain. The younger boys stared up at them, waiting.

s     "Lets get out of the stream," said Tommy.

     They climbed up the steep bank  and huddled themselves against the trunk of a pulmeria tree. The rain fell past them upon dead leave lying at their feet. It matted the leaves, turning them dull and indefinite, as fingers of steam rose from the cool earth.