Here is one of my short stories based on the loss overboard of some 28,000 thousand plastic toys many of them yellow ducks. this was back in Jan 1992 and they are still turning up all over the world this is the true story of one of them.
The Yellow Duck
By M. J. London
Chapter 1
Hot and molten are his first memories, his body tingles as he solidifies, then light blazes into his eyes as they are painted on. He watches in fascination as the red tipped paintbrush moves away from his beak. So it is, that in this way, his life begins, he never questions this beginning or how his awareness had been installed only that he thinks thoughts, he observes happenings and draws conclusions no mater how right or wrong they are. It exist “this will,” as does his body.
He plunges into a sea of fellow yellow ducks. Darkness falls as the cardboard box is sealed. He registers slight movement, more of a throbbing or vibration, which continues for a long, long time, until it turns into turbulent movement of ups and downs, side ways, then back and forth and even more ups and downs.
Eventually this turns into a frantic shuddering and churning. All at once top becomes bottom, the world swirls then continues with the up and down movement.
From the sea of yellow ducks he is suddenly thrust out with all his companions, into a deep black wetness that boils and froths that flows and pummels all at the same time. It is the sea of seas.
He sees the opened mouthed metal container slip under the waves, spewing out all of its contents that of boxes, all full of thousands of identical yellow ducks. As the waves lift him skyward he is able to make out a ship steaming off into the distance through the pitching rolling sea, thrusting through the enormous breakers.
Sometimes, when at the pinnacle of some of the waves, he becomes highlighted by streaks of lightening, while the deep rolling thunder makes his body vibrate. All around him in every direction he can see fellow ducks in patches of yellow. It seemed as though the sea had swallowed several suns without their heat, so bright are they in the otherwise enveloping blackness.
But duck by duck they split apart, occasionally he collides with another duck only to be parted on the next wave that hits them.
The storm abates passing on to another region, the waves mellow into a regular roll of white tops, some a mere two metre high, instead of the fifteen metre frantic power that had berried him so many times in plumes of dark water. From which his natural buoyancy retuned him time and again to the surface.
As the currents and eddies turn him he can see he how he was now fully alone on this vast ocean, it was just another moment in his journey to be acknowledged and accepted by him.
Chapter 2
The blackness becomes a deep grey as the pallid rays of light slip around the earth’s curve, to herald the coming of day. A chill wind rises then abates, as though it were the passing of an exhaled breath from an ocean monster. The clouds thickly mass above and carry on down to the horizon, creating an illusion of joined ocean and sky. No difference in them at all, especially when the rain starts, it sheets down like a waterfall but covering a vast area. Duck was buffeted and coerced, but his resilient body sails on indifferent to the deluge.
The rain ceases the clouds begin to part, shafts of sunlight hone down like searchlights sweeping the sea surface in a silver brilliance. As the clouds disperse shouldering they way past each other Duck is often caught in these rays of blazing shafts of light, it dazzles and sears his body each time. The clouds sweep on by, dowsing the light of the sun time and time again. In and out it peeks all day until it sinks towards earths orbit.
The remaining clouds in their dispersing to the west, are up-lit by these rays of lights. Instead of the varying greys they became succulent orange, deep reds, candyfloss pinks and bruised yellow. In all manner of the artist red and yellow hue of brush strokes. So in this way the skyline lets-fall the curtain of night, as suns rays that first highlighted now are weakened and fade.
Chapter 3
Night would have been pitch- tar black were it not for the trillion pinpricks of light that seeped down upon our planet from the millions of galaxies above. The energy of their burning suns that swirl or swirled around in the universe penetrates across the heavens to our upturned eyes, indeed some stars are already dead before their light has even time to reach us. The sea now calm mirrors the sky, Duck is indeed in awe of this sight and its beauty, Duck, does not internalise these words awe and beauty, he just knows they exist, as does he.
Suddenly the sea is split open in front of him as a shoal of silver flying fish clear their fluid world, for that of the air world. They soar wings spread, for forty metres or more. For many seconds they are birds. They fly in formation like a squadron, then dip down, swallowed by the ocean, only to re-emerge a metre or so on for another flight of fancy. Occasionally they gain heights of up to four metres above the surface.
Not only are their own shape and agility a wonder but they also trail a phosphorescence line of light behind them, that of the glowing bodies of thousands of microscopic creatures.
Duck is suddenly thrust skyward himself, but no outstretched wings allows graceful descent he just tumbles back to the sea surface taking in as he does the creature that had sent him skyward. It is the arched and graceful bodies of several Dolphins, in full pursuit of dinner, that is to say the escaping flying fish.
They corralled, they flew, they darted, they leapt and they sank and pirouetted again and again in and out of the sea into the air. As the fish swerved and flew so did the dolphins in a seemingly never tiring amount of amazing leaps. Eventually off into the distance and away across the ocean-wide they swim, fly and leap, out of ducks vision.
Calm has returned and prevails for the rest of the night. Under the star-studded sky, Duck sees only the occasional streak of a shooting star, to interrupt the velvet visual silence of the constant galaxy.
Chapter 4
Dawn appears on the horizon, the pink fading into yellow, then to soft blue in the cloudless sky. The sun rises bright and egg yoke yellow in colour. The wind ripples the ocean surface Duck drifts along on the currents, assisted by the breeze. He had no say in his direction, nor cares, all he knows is another day would offer fantastic sights and experiences. Existence is a privilege and a joy.
Something, is a-brewing, duck feels it. It starts with the heat and wind as it is lifting droplets from off surface of the ocean. Small amounts to begin with, then larger quantities as the heat piles up. The wind skips and turns, spinning each drop of water to follow the previous. It works the water up into a rising funnel that grows to five meters across at the base and circling up in its spiral to forty meters tall. It dances across the ocean surface increasing in speed and size as it goes, heading straight towards Duck.
One second he was bobbing along on the rippling waves next moment he is spinning and climbing on the inside of the spout, as it rises. He traverses higher and higher the funnel narrowed he neared the halfway mark, the spout wavers and curves but still kept spinning. The sun beams down, the rays penetrating the wall of water, in-doing so the light splinters throwing sparkles of colour in rainbow waves of blues, reds, yellows, greens and all the intrinsic colours in-between. Like a tower of diamonds they shimmer, glittered and spun.
The rays that originated ninety-three millions miles now mesmerized Duck. They had travelled here in eight minutes to heat and make our planet liveable plus giving untold fabulous beauty for us to behold.
Then all at once the spout curves, shakes, wavers and begins to fold. From his dizzying height Duck sees for miles around as the curtain of colour and water parts. Gravity takes over and draws the water droplets back, ocean bound. Freedom, so it seems, does not last long.
Duck plummets and tumbles in the airflow, along with the collapsing vortex of water. This would be the closest he will ever come to flying. The ocean surface rushes up to meet him, followed by the falling water droplets in his descent. Duck feels the deluge of water falling upon him, all around him air-bubbles fizz as he bobs back to the surface, where calm has replaced his fantastic twirling flight.
Chapter 5
Duck often goes for many days without occurrences to occupy him or creatures to amuse him, but in these times he muses little on what has been and never of what might be. He lives in the now, in the moment of acceptance, in the yellow of his being.
The moment of introspective is banished as a vision of white lands in front of him. It is a bird of pure white feathers, except for the black tips on its twelve-foot wingspan, and its yellow hooked beak that parts two keen jet-black beady eyes.
The Albatross presents a formidable shape. It peers at Duck, jabs at him with his intimidating beak, but decides Duck is inedible. So he preens its feathers instead of eating. He glides his beak back and forth under his wings rearranging their connecting spurs that make flight possible.
Enough preening it spreads its wings, gives a shake of its whole body, it eyes Duck one more time then begins to raise and lower it’s the massive wing span. Building into a firm flapping. Suddenly it lifts its body from the surface and with sturdy webbed feet it starts its ungainly take-off, running and flapping. All at once it becomes grace personified as it finds the thermal-lift it requires and sails up into the airwaves, far above the sea-waves and out of sight.
Chapter 6
Death it comes. It comes in the guise of a natural and unnatural aberration, that of a “Gyre” The gyre is natural in as much as they are part of the seas currents, they swirl and traverse the oceans for many thousands of miles. Running along continents, circling and moving vast quantities or water within water. In doing so they also pick up and concentrate huge amounts of mankind’s flotsam and jetsam.
Man’s waste in the form of polystyrene, wood, plastic, tin, cardboard, faeces, oil, fishing-nets, in-fact anything that can float and does not brake down easily. Duck finds himself now adrift with this, as if on an Island, not an Island of soft white sand where leather backed turtles may lay their soft eggs, but on a putrid mat of detritus that stretches for miles.
It steals life from the oceans, squashes any chance of survival, entrapping birds, fish and mammals alike. Anything that may stray upon it, rising up from below or landing on it, they are quelled, ensnared. To flail around until worn out or are throttled to death. To become part of the rotting mass, in its death dealing throes, throws shame on mankind. So Duck ‘s time will end, trapped his yellow of being, now only a blight, along with all the flag waving plastic bags. All beauty and joy out of reach.
That which was gifted to him has lost heart. No more has he the will and so he will perishes. Sadness overtakes him, along with emptiness, not at the finality of life but of the nature and way of its end and the knowledge that this does not need to be this way.
The End.
My daughter and son in law Hannah and Steve bought me a yellow duck for my christmas tree it is a truly loverly gift.
As with any of my writings I should be very pleased to receive any comments, what so ever, as even negative feelings would be constructive as writers need feedback. Thank you for taking the time to read any of my works kind regards to you all Michael. J. London.
