Can You Spit Across The Creek

Can You Spit Across the Creek

The creek wasn’t much wider than a car door, but to the two boys standing on opposite banks, it might as well have been the Trent River.

Evan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, narrowed his eyes, and said, “Bet you can’t do it.”

Tommy planted his sneakers in the moss, leaning forward like a pitcher about to throw heat. “Bet I can.”

The forest around them hummed with late‑summer insects, the kind that made the air feel alive. The water below whispered over stones, clear enough to see minnows flick like silver sparks.

Tommy drew in a breath, too big, too dramatic, and Evan grinned because he knew that meant Tommy was taking this way too seriously. Tommy puffed his cheeks, aimed, and fired.

The spit arced beautifully… then plopped into the middle of the creek, drifting downstream like a defeated ship.

Evan whooped. “Didn’t even make it halfway!”

Tommy scowled. “Wind caught it.”

“There’s no wind.”

“There could’ve been.”

Evan stepped closer to the edge, hands on his knees. “My turn.”

He didn’t puff up. Didn’t announce it. Just leaned in, quick and sharp, and let fly.

The spit sailed, clean, perfect and smacked the far bank with a tiny, triumphant tick.

Tommy’s jaw dropped. “No way.”

Evan shrugged, trying not to look as proud as he felt. “Guess I win.”

Tommy kicked a pebble into the creek. “Best two out of three.”

Evan grinned. “Always.”

And the forest, ancient and patient, watched two boys measure the world the way boys do, one impossible dare at a time.