What If…

It starts with a question. A simple “what if…” that shifts the focus. You think you have all your ducks in a row then, suddenly, you spot another one. It stands on the crest of a rise, grinning at you with unsettling human teeth. As it slowly backs away, you hear it whispering that question: “What if?”

“What if the story started here?”
“What if it went deeper?”
“What if you exposed everything at the very beginning?”
“What if the exposure was veiled?”

If you keep your current ducks in their simple, little line, you know it’ll be easier. If you turn around and ignore the weirdo mallard on the hill, nothing would have to change. Your story would still be your story, trotting along in neat little lines.

You’re grinding your teeth, fists clenched. You stiffen every limb to keep from indulging the strange little duckling on the hill. Yet, you know better than anyone:

If nothing changes, then nothing changes.

A hiss. A scowl. A growl. A groan. Whatever you want to call it. You give in despite your reluctance. Stomping up the hill, after the whispering “what if…”, and your neat line of ducks scatter. They’re wailing as you reach the crest of the hill, trying to call you back, but you’re searching for the unsettling, smiling duckling.

Off by the trees, tucked into roots, the little duckling continues it’s unraveling smile. A glint in its eyes. It salutes with a wing. Then, a hop to the left and it disappears. You race after it, but then force your feet to skid the dirt. You slide right to the edge to–what you should have known–a brand new rabbit hole. You sigh, still having dirt under your nails from the last one.

The whispering “what if…” echoes down in the dark. You can’t see a thing. You don’t know its depth, it’s length, or even if you’d fit. You could go back to your other ducks. Straighten them back up and carry on the march. Yet, you know you found a couple of them down rabbit holes and the results were always pleasing.

You take a deep breath and rub your face. You wipe yourself off, straighten up your shirt. It’ll all be in vain once your skin grits the grind, but heaven forbid you go in not feeling prepared.

You catch a glint somewhere in the depths, an unsettling smile of human teeth you know belongs to a duck. “What if…” it whispers, and you dive after it.