Perpetual Motion

                The steady breeze blew, never pausing, never stopping, around the three teenagers who drifted across the waves of soft earth. “Remind me, again, why  we’re at a cemetery,” Quinton asked.                 “Because it’s fun!” was Petrichor’s reply.                 Acelynn, head cocked to the side, and considered their friend. “You’re not afraid, are you? There’s really nothing that can harm you here. Other than what can normally harm you, anyway.” She turned and looked at the field scattered with stones and monuments ahead. “It really is peaceful actually.”                 Quinton met her gaze with that half mad grin of his, though not, she noticed, without some apprehension in his eyes. “Psychological harm, Lin, psychological harm.”                 Acelynn’s younger sister pushed herself in between the other two. “Come on. It’s actually interesting. It’s history. Besides, you never know when an undead being will show up and we’ll get to rekill it.” Acelynn shot her a disapproving glance, almost instantly replaced by laughter. That musical laughter of hers dazed Quinton long enough for the two girls to grab his wrists and take off running, dragging him well into the sea of weather beaten stones before letting go. Petrichor walked over to a life sized statue of a cat that rested within the roots of a tree and swiped her hand across the back of its head. Acelynn smiled. “She always does that.” “Why?” Quiton asked. “She just does.” “I meant, why a cat? In a cemetery?” Acelynn shrugged. “Don’t know.” Quinton knew he would have to accept that for now. The sisters moved among the stones, the elder gliding along, the younger more like a hiker upon the uneven ground. He watched the two of them with fascination. They were so at ease in this home of the deceased. Acelynn lingered by an angel with partial wings; Petrichor dropped to a crouch when she noticed a pot of artificial flowers. Quinton took a step, finding the ground surprisingly hard and level. Looking down, his face took on an odd color, simultaneously reddening from embarrassment and paling from fear. The headstone was small and flat, barely visible above the ground. The letters, once marking what poor individual rested here, were worn completely away from age and weather. This depressed stone may have been the sole rememberer of the deceased, but still, it made this boy think of whom it may mark.   Quinton was amazed that his friends had referred to this place as “peaceful” and “fun”. It was something straight out of his nightmares. His fear was irrational. It wasn’t like the buried could come back and hurt him. They were simply rotting corpses, bodies that, for one reason or another, no longer sent electrical impulses from the brain, through the spinal cord, to the ends of nerves. They were like old computers that could no longer turn on. They would never again do anything, change anything. Clouds gathered as Petrichor examined the graves around her. There was something in air at cemeteries. Something alive. People were afraid of that, but she didn’t see why. It wasn’t malicious so much as electrifying. It was like the thrill of watching horror movies that makes you feel even more alive. She trekked around headstones and monuments, hoping to find a supernatural being of undead origins. She settled for Quinton, creeping up behind the family marker he was suspiciously eyeing, then launching herself into his line of sight, causing him to emit a loud cry. “Jeez, Quinton, you scream loud enough to wake the dead.” “Don’t say that.” “Why?” she challenged him, “You can’t seriously be this scared.” “I’m just as scared as any normal person.” Inwardly sighing, Acelynn called over to the others, her soft voice carried by the gathering wind. They all gathered in front of a tomb, covered mostly by a mound of dirt and grass, showing only the brick facade and a vent like metal chimney from an old potbellied stove protruding from the top. “Here lies John Hummel, buried 1878,” announced Petrichor. “I’ve always wanted to get through that door. It’s open, but the hinges are rusted shut or something; it won’t move an inch.” Quinton examined the door, glad to have some details to distract him from his surroundings, a puzzle to solve. His maddened mischief returned to him a little. The wrought iron door was stuck about an inch out of the doorframe. The lock appeared rather complex. A vent pipe on top sticking out of what seemed to be ground. There were holes in what little exposed architecture there was, but, thankfully, he couldn’t see in. Acelynn climbed the mound to the top. The overgrown grass and other weeds tickled her legs. She was glad to see her friend put somewhat at ease. She brought him here because she’d thought he would love it, like her and her sister. Acelynn found peace; Petrichor found excitement; both found adventure. She’d hoped he wouldn’t spend the entire time scared. It was good to see him lost in his mysteries and details. She herself had never been scared by gravesites. Even as a child, she enjoyed visiting them. For most of her life, her mother had called one her place of residence after all. One would think that would make her dislike the place that had claimed her mother, but it only made her like them more. This was the place that offered her mother a home after she was taken away by death. Acelynn knew, now, that it was really only her body in the grave, that her soul lived on, but she herself knew only this life, the material world. It was a comfort to know her mother’s body had a home. Acelynn was now standing on the edge of the tomb. She was soon joined by Petrichor on one side; Quinton climbed up (noticing a chip in the top of the gray stone revealing a brick sized patch of red) and stood on the other. She stood and looked out at the view sprawling around them below. The wind was really blowing now, the sky a puffy grey mass, sure signs of an approaching storm. Her auburn hair whipped front, the first drops rain beginning to fall on her face. She laughed, exhilarated by the swirling atmosphere of wind and life. Quinton shoved his dark spikes of hair out of his eyes. Maybe he would come back one day. He wanted to figure out what secrets John Hummel, 1878 held. There might yet be new mysteries to solve, even among the dead. Petrichor had shut her clear green soda-glass eyes and soaked in the feel of the storm. The fresh, sweet smell of recently cut grass, and the almost eerie silence. Nothing but the presence of her sister and friend (and, perhaps, of her mother) and the wind and the presage of the storm remained. The wind, rapidity greatened by either proximity of the storm or height off the ground or both, carried on it excitement and change, maybe tragedy or maybe hope. Maybe not zombies or ghosts to battle, but definitely something wonderful, if just for the movement and fluidity of life. All endings lead to beginnings. Time continues on. The earth does not cease its movements. Even in a cemetery, life has not completely stopped. Death does not end life.