The Skip
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A man alone on the wet bank of the creek. He rests softly on a hollow log with eyes forward, feet apart. His wide hat halts the advance of the midday sun from above, so it sneaks below by deflecting off the water.

The man's reflection stares coolly up at him. It locks eyes with his as if to challenge him, and soon the pair appear lost in a contest of wills.

Behind the reflection are a thousand tiny tadpoles, unable to see or comprehend, waiting to become. Below them, a million rocks worn small and smooth by the eons. 

The man leans over, his reflection leans upward. He stretches a hand toward the water, and his reflection puts up its own as if to stop it. 

There's no contest here. The hand punches a hole in the reflection and continues down until it finds a small rock. The man pulls the rock up through the layers into his world, and shakes it dry.

He grips the stone carefully between his fingers, then hurls it spinning downward toward his reflection. Stone smashes against water, radiating violent ripples, obliterating the reflection. Instead of sinking, the stone rebounds into the air and clatters softly against the far shore.

The creek recovers and now shows only a clear blue sky. The tadpoles swim on. Only memory remains.