R J Hembree - Writers' Village University

“Do you think it just gave up and died?”
“Most living creatures have a natural desire for survival.”
“Most,” Annie said, “but not all.”
Bill exhaled. “Sometimes, the instinct is out of sync.”
“Do you think it felt guilty about leaving its family behind?”
“I don’t know.” Bill placed his hand upon her shoulder. He realized she had
grown almost as tall as Rachel and that her body possessed solidity not previously
evident in her slender frame. When she looked up into his face, their eyes met. Her
gaze darted away from his and alighted on the pond.
“I don’t get it.” she said, “It isn’t mom’s fault Aunt Lydia drowned.”
He watched as the bird’s carcass spun deeper into the mud, propelled by an
invisible current. “Sometimes, terrible things happen—things we can’t forget.”
“I’m scared.” Tears leaked out of the corners of Annie’s eyes.
“Me, too.” The duck’s wingtip sank beneath the surface. He squeezed his
daughter’s shoulder. “Do you think his mate left him to die alone?”
Annie flinched. She stared intently at the white breast visible under the
water.
“Because if she did, he probably suffered very much. I would have.” Bill
dropped his hand and turned away from his daughter. “Please wait in the car. I
need to be with your mother.”
He crossed the gravel and discovered his wife had entered the cemetery.
Rachel stood with the dead. She’d closed her eyes to her surroundings. As he
halted outside the gate, she lifted her hands to her mouth and cupped them so
that the heel of each palm touched and the tips of her finger pressed together to
form a funnel.
“Hello, Mr. Ramfield, 1926! Do you want to play tag?”
Goosebumps riddled the back of his neck. He peered nervously at his wife.
“My God, that’s morbid.”
“You brought me here.”
“Not to talk to dead people.”
“Where have you gone, Miss Ethel Bowman, 1931? It’s time to have some
fun, fun, fun.”
Her whisper drifted across the beds of the sleeping dead, siphoned by the
flesh of her hands. The gate squeaked as he leaned on it. “Stop it,” he said, “there’s
no one here but us.”
Rachel dropped her hands, opened her eyes, and looked at him over the gate.
“I hate the pond,” she said.
“Me, too.”
She took several exaggerated steps away from him as if she played a game
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