Dissection of ducklings

This is an attempt to describe an experience. The reference to this being horror is just my sick humour. So, Constant Reader, grab on to my arm and hold on tight...

It was a summer from childhood, or at least it could well have been. Do you remember when you were twelve; those hot lazy days that streamed on endlessly in the holidays? I'm sure you do. It was like that. Everything in the world was calm and quiet. If you listened to the radio, or watched the news, this obviously wasn't so, but the protagonist of this story only lay on the cool grass.

The sky ought to have been a pure blue he pondered aimlessly, letting his thoughts drift like clouds. On the horizon, the dark blue turned sour into a dusky grey, the result he concluded of the sultry air. The breeze which should have brought some kind of refreshment merely whipped away the sweat filled air around his face and replaced it with someone else's moisture.

He didnt care though. These were the times that he missed now he was no longer a boy. The excitement that used to preceed holidays was non-existant now. The things in life that used to bring such unadulterated joy when he was young now seemed somehow sterile. He remembered a few years ago when the realisation that he was disinterested in Christmas came as such a blow to him. Now of course there was the pleasure of giving presents to his brother, but when he was 14, money to buy things for other people was non-existant.

Even now, giving presents didnt create the same feeling as when you were 10 and you ripped off the meticulously wrapped box to discover (oh joy of joys!!) a Turtle Airship!

The bright sky was hurting his eyes; he turned his head to look across the open grass that separated the houses from the small seluded pond. In the foreground of his vision was a small brown blurr.

He blinked.

Still a small brown blurr.

His hand went to his eyes and rubbed them, trying to bring them back into focus.

This burst of movement brought with it a threatening quack. His eyes focused quickly and he saw the duck with a massive clutch of ducklings. He turned to call for one of his housemates; he stopped, not wanting to scare off the brood of mallards.

Quietly, and desperately not wanting to make the ducks scamper back away from him, he went into the kitchen and got some bread.

Seeing the food in his hand, the ducks began making a noise, foreign to him since he was four. As he tore of chunks of bread he counted the ducklings.

Eleven!!

All so tiny. Three could have stood on his hand at one time. The feathers not nearly developed on their miniscule backs, instead just a deep brown fur.

The other stood away from her children, letting them eat the food, even when it was thrown to her, she waited for the ducklings to eat it.

As the ducks squeaked for more, he felt a tingling in his belly that had long since left him. The erratic movement as they squabbled for food, the furry tufts where their wings would soon grow, the selflessness of the mother, this was beauty.

He fed the ducks until their mother pulled them away to go elsewhere. He was only vaguely aware of the girl watching him from across the road. He was only thinking about the beauty that exists in life. It doesnt exist in receiving presents, or not having worries, it comes from enjoying what is always there.