Henry Bixell minced across the rotted boards of the bridge spanning Boydt River. It was something the other boys had talked about but never really meant to attempt, one of those events that would land Henry squarely into the Bravery Hall of Fame. He concentrated on each step, ignoring the water rushing forty feet below. As he reached the other side and stepped back onto land, he smiled to himself. This was the last time anyone would call him chicken. And he was right. From that day forward he was called Crazy Hank. And Henry wasn’t sure which was worse.
This was written in response to the 100 Word Challenge.