ducks.
A blinding glare skipped off the water, hitting me in the eyes. I sat my bagel beside me on the bench and blocked the sun’s rays with my hand over my brow, looking out and over the pond to find the beautiful ducks. I sipped from my glass of orange juice.
I came out to the duck pond every day to watch the wonderful creatures swim and waddle around in the water. I could tell they loved life and I could tell they loved this beautiful pond. The two of them had come about a month ago when a hint of spring was present, but still too brisk for my old bones to endure sitting outside to appreciate the real enjoyment of their company. I could only watch from the front door of the building, or sometimes I’d catch a glimpse from my bedroom window. They were so beautiful, and I’d realized they were mates when I’d discovered Mrs. Duck sitting on her nest of eggs not long ago. I anticipated the arrival of the baby ducks, and I was certain Mrs. Duck did as well. She was a great mother who tended her nest regularly, never straying far from her babies who, I felt certain, were dying to break free and become full-fledged members of society. I couldn’t wait for that day.
Looking around, I couldn’t see Mr. and Mrs. Duck anywhere. I sat my juice beside me, tore my bagel into little pieces, and tossed them out into the water, knowing the ducks would come waddling by as they always had.
Out on the concrete path that surrounded the perimeter of the duck pond I spotted an object lying unbothered and unmoving. I gathered my robe at the front and stood from the bench to go investigate.
Walking along the path, I found that the ducks’ absence today was odd. I had come out every morning for the last week to admire the little creatures, which would be swimming around without a care in the world. But today was different, and I got a sudden chill the closer I advanced toward the object on the concrete path. A sick feeling, really.
I passed some shrubs and crossed a small wooden bridge, and then, only a few feet away, there was the beautiful little creature. A gusty breeze slipped underneath a wing, causing it to flap and simulate flight. Velvety feathers glistened in the sunlight and were still lovely to behold. However, the duck’s small, fragile head had been crushed and a smattering of duck brains and its little crushed bill lie on the ground. A large rock with fresh blood lay nearby. Next to the bank, I saw the nest that mother duck had tended for the last week. Bright yellow goo and smashed eggshells lay in a pile—the remnants of an obvious massacre.
My hands began to tremble and my vision blurred. I was unsure of what to do. The invading panic disrupted my breathing and I felt welling tears forming in my dry eyes. Confused, I wandered down the path, past Mrs. Duck, staggering to the edge of the forest that surrounded the acreage on which Ryker’s Ridge Institution sat. I stood there bent over with my hands resting on my knees, crying and gasping for air. My breath was snatched from my body again when to my right, in a ball of blood and feathers, I saw Mr. Duck, looking as mangled and helpless as his female counterpart. I couldn’t take any more of this brutality. I ventured down the path and around the duck pond until I was a good distance away from the bloody carnage.
The chilly breeze kicked open my robe, exposing my boxers and white undershirt. But I paid little mind to this uncomfortable coolness. I wiped my tears and after a few seconds of blubbering, I regained my good sense. Was I really crying over these animals? Had my life come to this? This was absurd and unlike me. I’d fought in Vietnam, for Christ’s sake. I’d seen enough blood and gore to last a lifetime. I’d seen many a brave soldier with their faces blown off, with mangled limbs hanging from their charred torsos, die in the jungle, in the clutches of my own arms. And now, I was reduced to whimpering like a little school girl, crying because she
A blinding glare skipped off the water, hitting me in the eyes. I sat my bagel beside me on the bench and blocked the sun’s rays with my hand over my brow, looking out and over the pond to find the beautiful ducks. I sipped from my glass of orange juice.
I came out to the duck pond every day to watch the wonderful creatures swim and waddle around in the water. I could tell they loved life and I could tell they loved this beautiful pond. The two of them had come about a month ago when a hint of spring was present, but still too brisk for my old bones to endure sitting outside to appreciate the real enjoyment of their company. I could only watch from the front door of the building, or sometimes I’d catch a glimpse from my bedroom window. They were so beautiful, and I’d realized they were mates when I’d discovered Mrs. Duck sitting on her nest of eggs not long ago. I anticipated the arrival of the baby ducks, and I was certain Mrs. Duck did as well. She was a great mother who tended her nest regularly, never straying far from her babies who, I felt certain, were dying to break free and become full-fledged members of society. I couldn’t wait for that day.
Looking around, I couldn’t see Mr. and Mrs. Duck anywhere. I sat my juice beside me, tore my bagel into little pieces, and tossed them out into the water, knowing the ducks would come waddling by as they always had.
Out on the concrete path that surrounded the perimeter of the duck pond I spotted an object lying unbothered and unmoving. I gathered my robe at the front and stood from the bench to go investigate.
Walking along the path, I found that the ducks’ absence today was odd. I had come out every morning for the last week to admire the little creatures, which would be swimming around without a care in the world. But today was different, and I got a sudden chill the closer I advanced toward the object on the concrete path. A sick feeling, really.
I passed some shrubs and crossed a small wooden bridge, and then, only a few feet away, there was the beautiful little creature. A gusty breeze slipped underneath a wing, causing it to flap and simulate flight. Velvety feathers glistened in the sunlight and were still lovely to behold. However, the duck’s small, fragile head had been crushed and a smattering of duck brains and its little crushed bill lie on the ground. A large rock with fresh blood lay nearby. Next to the bank, I saw the nest that mother duck had tended for the last week. Bright yellow goo and smashed eggshells lay in a pile—the remnants of an obvious massacre.
My hands began to tremble and my vision blurred. I was unsure of what to do. The invading panic disrupted my breathing and I felt welling tears forming in my dry eyes. Confused, I wandered down the path, past Mrs. Duck, staggering to the edge of the forest that surrounded the acreage on which Ryker’s Ridge Institution sat. I stood there bent over with my hands resting on my knees, crying and gasping for air. My breath was snatched from my body again when to my right, in a ball of blood and feathers, I saw Mr. Duck, looking as mangled and helpless as his female counterpart. I couldn’t take any more of this brutality. I ventured down the path and around the duck pond until I was a good distance away from the bloody carnage.
The chilly breeze kicked open my robe, exposing my boxers and white undershirt. But I paid little mind to this uncomfortable coolness. I wiped my tears and after a few seconds of blubbering, I regained my good sense. Was I really crying over these animals? Had my life come to this? This was absurd and unlike me. I’d fought in Vietnam, for Christ’s sake. I’d seen enough blood and gore to last a lifetime. I’d seen many a brave soldier with their faces blown off, with mangled limbs hanging from their charred torsos, die in the jungle, in the clutches of my own arms. And now, I was reduced to whimpering like a little school girl, crying because she
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