Don’t Feed The Ducks

Always just good, never great. Even the lab that she had been so meticulously prepared for was a clutzy disaster, and all she could blame was herself. Maybe in another life, she would have been a starving artist, in love with a dying love for the craft, or an English major, but in the current, she was unfortunately not. 

Pushing past the overly weighted doors into the dark elements, the cold of the wind swiped breeze against sweat and proved she was still alive. Still there, whether she wanted to or not, and whether anything mattered or not. The force of the meaninglessness of it all weighed down in her bag and shoulders. So, too, the moon hid away, too ashamed to even bare its face, and the flickering streetlight beckoned her away. Finals were a week away, and exams would not fail themselves. 

Descending the stony stairs, still occupied by all she had done wrong and would continue to, her train of thought was cut by a nasal quack that rang out from the foremost path leading to the fountain. Hardly visible in the barely illuminated plaza was a sad little duck, a few paces in front of a torn, dingy sign with a poorly scratched DON’T FEED THE DUCKS. 

The strangely gaunt mallard looked off the side as if to feign apathy or ignorance to the message, though its hunger rang through its ghastly feathers and sickly complexion. As the girl faced the duck, it was clear that in this life, the duck would not starve, whether from benevolence hidden in an indifference or a need to delay the inevitable dread that awaited her in her dorm. From her backpack, she pulled out a half-eaten granola bar, scattering the crumbs as she settled onto the ledge of the fountain. 

Yet, rather than dive to the much-needed sustenance, the duck stood in place from where it had quacked, and quite suddenly, more joined it. Under the faint fluorescence of the distant street lamp and the little light that reflected off the moon through peeks of clouds was a substantial council of ducks, ranging from sour verdant to dry tan and hazel. A vaguely fishy waft shrouded them as if to define them as one reigning body, and they spoke as one, with distorted tones branching off like crackly wisps of smoke. 

“The sign told you a rule to obey, and you did not listen,” the ducks croaked. The air had a rusted weight that seemed to cool and reflect off the water, though the girl remained unmoved, besides her heart that had descended stories below the ground. Silence cut through it, severing the hanging turmoil, and it plunged. 

“You’re ducks?” the girl asked hesitantly, trembling in voice and body. 

“Yes, ducks,” the ducks replied, “and you are a lugubrious one, are you not?” The ducks had inched closer, though it was not evident when they had moved, perhaps obscured by the still oscillating lusters of the surroundings. 

“No, no you’re not,” she uttered in a hushed, desperate tone. 

“And you’ll never be good enough,” the ducks replied. 

Suddenly, the ducks seemed more real—more tangible—and the light that had trembled went still. 

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

“You know what we mean,” the ducks spoke, though their voices had begun to divide.

One of the ducks, the one that had stood scraggly and alone before, stepped forward. Much closer, the girl could see the duck's eyes, and not a shine or soul was left inside. “You’ll never be good enough,” the duck said again, its lone voice insistent, as if it was the only truth to lean on, and maybe it was. 

Another duck stepped forward, plumper, yet light on its feet. 

“You must wonder why you are pathetic—so lacking, do you not?” 

The girl stared back with hollowed eyes and heart, reluctant to nod. The ducks saw through her. 

“Yes, of course,” the scraggy duck started with a cocky waltz. “You were never destined for much. It’s how it has to be, after all. Don’t take it too harshly.” 

“What do you mean?” the girl beckoned, more fraught inside her air. “Does nothing really matter?” 

“Not nothing,” the duck affirmed. “Just you.” 

He paused, peering into her bare afflictions, and grasped them tight. 

“How else are others meant to be great?” he continued. “All of your earnest efforts and failures are simply a metric for which to compare to those who are better.” “Your arbitrary endeavors were still a delight to muse over, even if scripted just like this,” a gauzy duck added with an unnervingly toothy smile. 

“Oh, what a pity it is to see the scorn on your face,” the other duck cooed. “You did it again. You know how fragile their ticking hearts are.” 

The girl's heart was indeed fragile and scattered like the crumbs she had so thoughtlessly dropped. The ducks diverted their attention away from the girl, turning inwards, volleying and chattering their omniscient revelations. For some deific manifestations, they were quite the loathsome gossips. As they rambled, what were many converged to just one, and what was whole of the girl had diverged.