Too Many Questions
There are woods behind my friend Wendell's apartment building. His parents tell us not to go in there; they say there's a monster, a tree that eats little boys.
"Where did it come from?" I ask.
"It used to be a little boy who asked too many questions," they say.
They don't like us to go into the parking lot, but when they aren't paying attention, we go anyway. We crawl under the fence and sneak into the trees, following the path until we find a wooden platform built into one of the trees. Shopping carts rust under the bushes and there are clothes and a thick smell like sweat in summer, like a hundred summers worth.
"Is that a tree house?" Wendell asks.
We hear a loud rustling from the other end of the trail.
"What's that?" Wendell asks.
"Don't ask," I say, turning to run. I don't even look to see if Wendell follows.
CL Bledsoe's prose can be found most recently in Pindeldyboz, MonkeyBicycle, Hobart, and Foliate Oak, for which he was nominated for a Pushcart. He is an editor for Ghoti Magazine http://www.ghotimag.com