The Wendy Tree

They said it was a curse.

The "Wendy Tree," as we all called it, was cursed.

But who were we, kids, to believe such nonsense.

Though looking back now, maybe it really was a curse...

But do curses even exist?

That's what led my little, young, mind to attempt to prove. I didn't heed their warnings, I could care less about a supposed myth. Foklore. A scary story.

But it couldn't be real.

So i ignored them.

The story of The Wendy Tree was well known, passed down from higher classes to the younger ones, and so on and so forth. And once I heard the story, I too, passed it on. There were many different adaptations, as to be expected from a recited story, but one story stood out the most, and by far was the most retold.

Wendy Cromwell, that was her name. Her name etched in brass on the cold metal plaque ontop the grave where she laid. One day, unfortunately for her, she was swinging on the swings, like many kids do during recess.

What made it so different?

The playground was positioned oddly on a slim peice of land between the parking lot, and a road about 20 feet below. A fence, meant to keep small kids from leaving, was the only divider between the playground, and the streets. Where the swingset, which was more than 25 feet in height as well, was, however, near the edge of the fence to the point where if you swung high enough, you'd be over school boundaries and above the strret below that was now more than 45 feet below.

So what did this have to do with anything?

You see, as most playgrounds today have woodchip floors, this playground was bottomed with sand. and with the sand came the desert bees whose hives were in the sand. The sand below the children's feet. The sand below the swings.

As it was being a warm sunny day, the sand-bees, as we nicknamed them (for I do not recall their real name), were buzzing about. And with kids playing in the sun, running around, they stirred up such bees into frenzies.

It was not uncommon for children to get stung by bees. Every week, at the least, another child would be stung.

And Wendy was to be the next victim.

But I said she was on the swings, correct? The swings with the frenzied bees beneath?

So what would happen if the hive directly below her swing was disturbed by kids playing tag?

And these such bees, were looking for an intruder to blame.

And that this said intruder was blamed to be Wendy.

And that Wendy had gotten stung while she was swinging high enough; high enough to be over the fence above the street. 45 feet above the street infact.

And so, when Wendy Cromwell was almost at the peak of her swinging trajectory, a bee stung her leg. Doing what anyone would do, she involutanrily reached for her throbbing leg... but whilst doing so, let go of the swing. The rest was science's fault. The pattern of her swing trajectory flung her over the fence, and gravity slammed her into the street 45 feet below.

All that was heard was the dull smack of a small body hitting the pavement, her bones shattering, her skull cracked.

She was pronounced dead a few hours later.

The school, sued of course for the death of the child, set up a memorial and buried her next to where the playground was, beneath a Maple Tree, a metal plaque naming it as "The Wendy Tree."