Just another ordinary day, the day we were chased by a—
Duck. Quite farcical really, as I bolted hand-in-hand with my small—
Daughter. With her short—
Legs. Well, not as mechanically concise as a duck’s—
But still…
We ran, we ran, as fast as we could. Huffing, puffing, seeking a safe haven. But the duck persisted.
Do ducks even bite?
We were so busy sprinting, I could barely think. I lurched to the left, nearly yanking my daughter’s arm out of its socket.
“Owwwwwww!” she screeched, and quite rightly.
Then I saw it; a place we would be—
Safe. We leapt like springboks onto a picnic—
Table. Waddle-waddle, waddle-waddle. The duck was getting—
Closer. I’m sure I saw an evil twinkle in its—
Gander.
“Stand back, crazy wigeon,” I commanded, my voice—
Robust. It slowed down, its bill opening to reveal a—
Tongue. Ducks have tongues? I swooped my offspring over my—
Backpack. Not easy, her feet gnashing into my—
Spleen. She had a backpack too, so between us we resembled a deranged—
Turtle.
The duck reached the table, figuring its way up to the seat, commencing a ritualistic pecking routine, aimed at my feet. I performed an involuntary Irish jig on the tabletop. Not a Guinness in sight. My daughter’s tears beginning to flow. The ardent duck eyeing our every move.
I vaulted in slow—
Motion. Onto a mossy clover—
Patch. Like an inept tap-dancer, I skittered across the—
Shrubbery. Duck in—
Tow. Child and backpacks on—
Back. The dreaded drake Swan Laked its way toward—
Us. Its fowl legs ambling, its bill nipping at my—
Ankles. I needed a—
Plan.
Faster. We were toast anyway, so I ran. I ran in that weird way you do when you’re carrying something, and you don’t want to jiggle around too much. Like a sleek, long-legged, darting emu, I gazumped my way to a nearby hill.
“The car’s over there,” I assured my daughter. But no. No, it wasn’t. I couldn’t turn around, for risk of the unhinged duck making a feast of my Achilles tendons. Circling the hill, I searched for the carpark.
Nowhere to be found.
Left; right. Southbound; northbound. All the same.
“Wraaaaaaaargh!” That’s the noise ducks make. Not “quack”. Old MacDonald was WRONG! “Wraaaaaaaargh! Wraaaaaaargh!” It was catching up. Nipping at me, my worst-case scenario in motion.
I commando rolled, Ninja Turtle-style onto a nearby—
Boulder. Seriously, what was wrong with this—
Duck? No other park quackers were chasing —
People. Why—
Us?
I cast my eyes toward other gazelles on the —
Lake. All doing duck things like—
Swimming. Some were—
Waddling. A plump of paddlers were diving for—
Food. Rather than us. As ducks—
Should. Why did ‘ours’ think it was—
Superduck?
I gathered my bearings. The carpark was past the far hill. Beyond the picnic table where we’d previously been trapped. My daughter cried out—“Mummmmmmy!” The gaggler was climbing our rock.
“Oh, shit!” I heard myself gasp, bracing my daughter against my backpack. I ran for our lives toward the car.
We were—
Toast.
Dead.
History.
This creature was surely out to—
Kill.
We scampered. Dashed. Scooted.
I looked back, and the damn shoveler had lost—
Interest. Flapping off the—
Rock. Heading toward a smattering of—
Bread. Bread? Not human flesh?
We made it to the—
Car.
I off-loaded the cargo from my back. Breathed in and out. My daughter looked up and asked: “Mummy, can we please go and feed the duckies?”
I shook my head and collapsed in a great quacking heap.
About:
Lorena Otes’ debut memoir, ‘Solo Mum by Choice,’ is out in May 2026 through Hawkeye Publishing. I have written for Little Old Lady Comedy, Witcraft, Defenestration Literary Humor Magazine, Mamamia Online, The Brussels Review, Feels Blind Literary, and Bounty Parents. My short stories have won many awards including long-listings in Furious Fiction, Not Quite Write, Story Unlikely, and a short-listing The Letter Review.
