Cyril Wheaton There it was, a glossy coat of tan feathers flecked with brown streaks, perfectly preened tail feathers, scaly webs of a deep tangerine, and a gleaming ochre beak. The mallard stood on the pedestal looking stiffly, yet smugly down on Lucy who gazed up at the bird through the thick glass. From appearance, this duck looked nothing like her soft, downy, white companions, not even close, yet they shared so much in common too. The smooth arched neck, the flat awkward feet, and that face. It was always so disarming, the way their curved beak gave the appearance that they were always smiling, whenever it cocked its head up while looking at you as if to say “what’s for dinner?”
“Lucy, let’s go already!” Mark’s impatient tone slashed through her thoughts like a talon. “What are you gaping at?” was his annoyed query.
“Nothing,” she mumbled, and she dragged her feet away as the mallard smiled at the next approaching tourist.
Alternate ending
“Lucy, let’s go already!” Mark’s impatient tone cut through, “Why are you just standing there- oh…uhhhh…what’s wrong?”
“Nothing” she sniffed, while scrubbing her tears off with the sleeve of her blue shirt. Mark glanced around hurriedly and turned bright pink after noticing a crowd of elementary students gawking at them.
“Well if you’re okay then let’s move,” he half-whispered, “mom’s waiting for us.” The two left the room (with Lucy shuffling her feet) while a teacher strode over and herded the curious students off to the next exhibit.
