I dreamt about the duck again. The creepy little vagrant, floating lifelessly on the pond’s surface, so still, so unlike all of his peers. Why don’t you move, duck? Why do you just stare blankly at the sun? Why can’t I get you out of my head? 

Early retirement was supposed to be a gateway to all kinds of new freedoms. I couldn’t wait. No more meetings where I had to pretend to care about this or that. No more performance reviews, reports, or perfectly pleasant yet mind-numbing chit-chat with Tom from compliance. No more cruelly thin toilet paper and harsh overhead lights and writable whiteboard walls everywhere. I never understood why every wall had to be a writable surface. Over enough time little niggles became personal vendettas. I came to hate those walls and their perpetual scribbles. But the best part of retirement meant no more sacrificing the bulk of each day to a place that didn’t give a shit about me. I’ve toed the line, done my time, paid the piper and now, for the first time in over twenty years, I can prioritise myself. Fuck you, Tom from compliance and fuck you, whiteboard walls.

The final months prior to my retirement I thought the same thing over and over; once I’m free of this place I’m going to spend more time outdoors, beneath the sky. I’d arrived at the decision that every morning I would walk the twenty minutes from my front door to the local park and I’d feed the ducks. I’ll finally get my 10,000 steps in (I’d read in an article how important this was) but more importantly, it’d be a chance to do something intentional and calming. I’d find my mind drifting during meetings, thinking of a late morning breeze on my face, grateful little duck eyes looking expectantly up at me as I prepared the next toss of bread pieces. Will I throw left or right, I’d tease. I could already see their little tails waggling in anticipation. I wondered which type of bread might be best, remembering another article I’d read about the dangers of white bread. It’s all sugar apparently. That 50/50 loaf I’d seen in the shops seemed like a good compromise. Healthier but still delicious. All of a sudden I’d come-to in the middle of a meeting with no idea how long I’d been daydreaming, colleagues staring. I didn’t care anymore. Soon I’d be free. Soon I’d be feeding ducks.

My retirement party came and went and beyond the paltry gift voucher I took nothing from it because for the first time in years I was excited about something. Monday came, my first as a retiree, and I was ready. I arrived at the pond wearing my comfortable walking trainers and cosiest fleece, tote bag concealing a freshly purchased loaf of 50/50, already torn into bill-friendly sized chunks. I stood at the pond’s edge and watched the ducks playfully congregate. My heart almost skipped a beat when the first caught sight of me and began to wade in my direction. His peers, concerned of missing a good feed, followed suit and before I knew it I was gleefully tossing fistfuls of bread to them. It was everything I’d dreamed of. Their grateful peep-peeps, the mischievous pinching of each other’s breakfast, the peddling of their floppy little feet against the water’s surface. How I laughed. The more I filled their tummies with bread the more my heart filled with joy. Over twenty years of discontented struggle had evaporated in the ripples left by their giddy paddling. 

Over a few weeks I felt like I got to know the flock and their individual temperaments. There were the bold pioneers who dared to come closest to me – Arthur and his Knights of the Round. I gave them extra servings because fortune favours the brave. At the back of the crowd Plato and his Republic would linger outside of the melee, contemplative and passive. Thinkers, not fighters. I’d launch the occasional over-arm toss to them, trying my best to make sure everyone had their fair share. Then there were Clive and his two Inklings, Beatrice, Virgil, Romero, Ampersand and Geneviève. I attended to them every morning and I couldn’t remember having ever felt so content. 

That was until I noticed him. A lone duck floating motionless by the pond’s centre, completely ignoring his pond-fellows. Strange, I thought, for a duck to be completely lacking any interest in food. Perhaps it was unwell, I worried. His back was facing me and its head seemed to be angled upwards towards where the sun was currently hidden behind a smattering of clouds. I didn’t think much of it at first but each subsequent visit to the pond became gradually eclipsed by my growing intrigue of the duck, in his same position every day, back to me staring like a monument towards the sun. 

The other ducks had been easy to name. Effortless, in fact. Their bubbling personalities had simply offered up a name to me. But the frozen duck offered me no name and no satisfaction. Only concern. Concern which soon cast itself like dark dye in the clear waters of my equanimity. I had to do something.

In my first attempt to engage the mysterious mallard I’d hoped to land a sizable hunk of Hovis close enough for the duck to notice and snap him out of his trance. I threw an effortful over-arm but the piece was too light and fell approximately ten feet short. Romero swept in to claim it. Typical bullish Romero. I broke off a larger piece and threw. Closer. It splashed about five feet away from the static nameless duck. I loaded up another projectile and cocked my arm for a mighty throw as two dog walkers passed by. “Morning,” I offered embarrassingly as I failed to lower my arm from well above my head in a way that looked close to normal. “Morning,” they replied with quiet judgement. My eyes fell upon the frozen duck once more. Still he stared into the sun.

I turned up the next morning with a plan for Nameless. I’d been thinking about it all night. I balled up a full slice of bread, compressing and rolling it between my hands until eventually it formed a cricket ball wad of gluten. My target was to strike the water as close as possible to him so that neither the splash nor the generous bounty could possibly be ignored. Ignore this you little zealot, I thought. I threw with an exerting grunt and watched as the ball arced through the air directly towards the duck. Too much velocity. Shit. It was descending directly towards the duck and my chest flashed in panic as I saw what was coming. I briefly wondered if a part of me wanted to hit the creature and my throwing arm had been in cahoots. I braced as though I were the one about to be struck with an orb of supermarket dough and watched the collision. The weighty dough ball connected with the duck’s head. It toppled over in a great splash. The impacting spray obscured my vision but once the water settled all that was left was rippling water and the absence of a nameless duck. I held my breath, mortified at myself. What had I done? 

My eyes bore into the spot where Nameless had once floated and I watched the resulting ripples jog their way across the surface until they dissipated into mirror-stillness once more. I looked around to check if anyone had witnessed my unintentional-though-perhaps-a-little-bit-intentional assassination. No one. No one except the ducks. Geneviève honked knowingly. I trusted the ducks would keep my secret but how could I return? My place of serenity had been tarnished. I dumped the remaining bread and left quickly, my face turning hot and my eyes watering. I’m sorry, Beatrice. You were never meant to see such barbarism. 

I didn’t return for a week and that week was dreadful. Life was made heavy and grayscale by the guilt. I dreamt of the duck during that time, the same dream three times. I was lost at sea in a dinghy with nothing but flat ocean horizon in every direction. Dark clouds gathered and brewed a storm that tossed me around like an insignificant play-thing. A tsunami-scale wave grew tall and charged toward me and at the very moment I’d accepted my demise I saw him, riding atop the wave’s crest like Poseidon. The duck, tiny in comparison, strode the wave as though he were steering it and with gleaming red eyes he steered it crushingly down upon me. Pummeled and drowning I’d wake up gasping for air. After the third nightmare I resolved to return to the pond. I didn’t expect to find resolve but I had to try something as life was becoming increasingly unbearable. I wasn’t ready for what I would find. 

I approached the pond and was met by the usual expectant honks of my hungry companions. I began to toss bread somewhat absently in an attempt to soothe my anxiety. I didn’t want to look to the centre of the pond, to the sight of execution, but knew I must confront the past if I were to move on. I looked up and there he sat. Back facing me, face craned upwards towards the sun. Horror crept over me. Memories of the incident rushed through my mind and were immediately called into question. Had they actually happened? How could they have happened if he was still here? I’d watched him collide, sink and not reemerge…hadn’t I? I felt the solid beams of my reality slacken in the wake of his unmoving presence. I turned and I ran home, crying hysterically. 

I didn’t understand. I couldn’t understand. I’d watched him disappear beneath the water. I searched frantically for possible answers. Maybe it wasn’t the same duck? Maybe it had been a trick of the light? Maybe Nameless never really existed in the first place? For the next several weeks my sleep deteriorated under incessant theorising and nightmares. I could feel myself fraying at the edges, becoming unhinged and delirious. Nameless, you little feathered bastard, what have you done to me? 

More weeks hurried past me. I spun out in growing confusion, unable to grasp anything solid to anchor me to reality. Ducks haunted the edges of my peripherals, waiting in shadows and peeking their bills around corners too quick for me to ever get a certain glimpse. Their honks and peeps were coded into sounds around me – a car horn, the ding of the microwave, my doorbell’s chime. They all had a definite honking quality that wasn’t there before. I had no choices left. In my slippers and dressing gown I stormed to the local shop to buy a loaf of 50/50. I put it through the self-service checkout. My tote bag confused the bagging area and a shop assistant had to help me. They looked worried and to my eye, slightly duck-ish. I hurried to the pond. I couldn’t stop. Something needed to give before my mind became unsaveable. I stood on the edge of the pond and stared. There he was. Nameless; my personal demon. My infernal patron. My nemesis. I stepped into the water. I could register the extreme cold but the sensation was numbed and distant. I waded deeper, slippers submerged. Ankles. Knees. Thighs. Waist. The other ducks scattered at my intrusion. I only hoped they’d forgive me. Eyes locked on Nameless I pushed determinedly through the reeds, pond scum and previously undisturbed sediment. What was my plan? I had no plan. But I needed absolution and confrontation was the only route I could see. Closer and closer I waded. Baffled dog walkers and their children stopped in their tracks and watched, their faces at a busy junction between horror and disgust. I ignored them, sights locked on Nameless’ foreboding form, which I’d now realised was many shades darker than his pond-mates, his plumage almost completely black. I’m panting now that I’m within reach, water above my belly button, dressing gown flowing behind me like the spectre I’d become. Still he doesn’t move, back to me, head lifted to the sun. I hesitate for a moment and as my heart pounds and I grab with both hands. He lifts easily from the water, unresisting and unwavered. I have him. I’m wheezing, mouth open as I turn him around to finally face me. I stare at him. He stares back at me. His eyes. Oh god, his eyes. 

–

From: Tom F

Subject: Catch Up

Hey! It’s been a while. How’s retirement working out for you? 

Reply to Tom F:

hello tom ive completely lost my mind how are you

From: Tom F

RE: Subject: Catch Up

Haha retirement can do that!

For about eight years I’ve had a note saved in my phone that consisted of two sentences outlining the essence of this short story. It’s perhaps the first short story I’ve written that felt like once we got up to pace that it wrote itself, if I dare make a statement so trite. Corporate careers can take a heavy psychic toll and I worry that I might be writing here about my own future.