True Story; Mild violence

PurpleBee

I’ve often wondered aloud what ducks think about, but now I have been silenced for I am privy to their secrets and I won’t tell a soul. I told one man. Old Fagan of the Hillock lit up but said not a word. He is a mute. It happened three days ago, the moon and the sun shared the sky in one of those strange mornings. The sun had asked the moon to leave but on reflection there was plenty of room for both.

A duck came upon me as ducks never do. I was knitting a glove of sheep’s wool. The index finger was elongating at a famous pace. But my tracks were stopped. So surprised was I that I spoke to this intrusive duck without paying the slightest attention to my usual presumption that ducks don’t understand. But my mind finally caught up with itself. Oh it was like a woman chasing her washing line through a forest. I gathered my underpants last only to have them clean blown off when the duck answered. I was just wondering why you are knitting fingers into that glove when I clearly don’t have any. He said. Well the cheek! My underpants. He spoke! I knit on for a moment, head lowered, eyes raised cautiously to the street for evidence of public befuddlement. There was none. “This glove is for me. Not you.” But your hands are never immersed in the frozen lake you lucky sod.

This wouldn’t do, this conversation with a party that looks upon my stale bread as his treat of the week. So I shooed him with my needle. I shooed him right off my steps and he flapped about. One of his feathers fell out and stabbed me in the nose. “Do your feathers grow back if you lose them?” I asked. “No how about yours?” He chuckled gaily at that solitary spear lodged in my left nostril. Well just then my sister called by and of course the duck fell silent. My nostril was bleeding quite heavily and the glove had found its way to the gutter in the preceding shooing.

She stood before me, baffled, horrified…. “what in the name of Saint Barbary are you doing?” I explained about the duck but I left out the bit where he spoke, for I was sure he wouldn’t repeat the trick in her presence with the sole aim of amusing himself at the expense of my perceived state of mind. Well you simply aren’t a shooer of any note. Dear old sis removed her shoes and flung both at the cunning duck for which she paid with a double barrel of feathers in the eyeball. Off home she ran bawling. I thanked the duck for his inadvertent kindness. I explained to him how my sister had leant me money on the understanding I would use it to start a library. My obsession with fine wools would have disturbed her greatly, much more so my indulgences in same obsession with her library fund.

The duck and I were left alone, and I quickly realised those flying feathers were no accident. “No handcuffs will fit, but for that I would have you seized duck…..y.” I am above the law for I fly without the need for metal encasement. Too true I thought, metal encasement is right. Why can’t the law be as clever as the criminals, why are they doomed to always chase?

D4RK ONION

What a wonderfully mad story. The ending is the icing on the cake. Bravo!