The Quack of Death

The duck shot past me like a bullet with a beak. It’s barrel shaped body tight and compact. Wings flapping frantically, feathers flying everywhere. And it very nearly smacked into my head. If I had been jogging just a little bit faster it would have hit me. Perhaps I would have fallen hard, hurt my head or fallen into the canal. Then I imagined the death notices in the paper. “Girl killed by duck” “Tragic jogging death” “Killer duck strikes town” I pictured the ironic comic pathos of my funeral. “What a way to go” people would mutter into their handkerchiefs outside the church. Not sure whether to laugh or cry. Maybe a commemorative statue would be placed on the Spanish arch as a warning to future generations. Perhaps that duck had been deliberately aiming for me. And he now waits for me to reappear. Sitting and watching with beady eyes. Wings folded, ready to strike. So that the last thing I will ever hear is a loud quack. The quack of death.