Bird Story
There were those who thought her crazy, homeless, and
those who knew her for what she truly was: Queen of the Ducks. The former
were entirely human, the latter mostly ducks.
She lived in the park; no one had ever seen her elsewhere.
She sat at a bench with her flock about her most of the day. One might think
she was feeding them, but she was their Queen and they her subjects, and
as such, they fed her. They made for her a crown of feathers and sticks.
They made for her ceremonial wings which she hung from her back.
When she moved, they followed, closing ranks around her,
squawking warning to any enemies in the kingdom.
At night, she slept among and under her ducks, a quacking
quilt and mattress. Those closest to her tucked their heads under her arms
and legs (sadly, she lacked true wings). Those in the middle kept their heads
underneath their wings, those at the edge stayed vigilant through the night,
bills at the ready to quack alarm or peck out the eyes of any intruder.
It was a nice life. She was a benevolent ruler and
her kingdom rewarded her for it. Then on one warm autumn day, He came.
He came in a white car with black roof and doors. Its
backseat was full of loaves of bread in plastic bags. He stepped out regally,
wearing a thick down coat and a tall hat with flaps. He took a bag of bread
from the back, emptied it on to the hood and without ceremony began to shred
a loaf, scattering the morsels on the ground.
This would have been enough to tempt normal ducks, but
not hers. Her mallards, drakes and ducklings stayed around her in tight formation,
waiting.
He turned and his eyes met the Queens. He smiled and waved.
Then the sky darkened and the air filled with the beating
of wings and horrible screeching. Sea gulls, rats with wings, in the hundreds.
He tore and tossed more and more bread, loaf after loaf..
The vile gutter birds worked themselves into a frenzy of breadlust. A swirling
tempest, wings dirty white, eyes beady black, feathers, feces and blood.
A looping string of seagull shit fell from the fray and
hung from the Queens crown, bending the tallest feather.
When the gulls had taken their fill, they landed behind
their lord in long order. A regular field of filthy fowl.
The ducks trembled and wozzled with fear.
"The time has come, old woman, to recognize my power,"
he said, and threw his arms wide like an angry Christ. His swarm erupted
from behind him, descending.
Her ducks, through outnumbered, were brave. The
armies clashed, wing to wing. The seagulls pulled back, swooping north across
the sky, blocking the sun. The ducks gave chase, flanking them, only to have
the head of the swarm turn on them as they attacked the tail. Bodies of dead
birds sank through the air like stones. It was madness.
Both the King and Queen watched frozen. Eyes peeled, ears
open. She noticed it first; the movement of the competing flocks seemed to
change. The noise from the fracas shifted. Her ducks ceased quacking warlike
and began to croon. The King was ignorant of the meaning of duck calls, but
he understood his seagulls' shrieking. It was no longer agony or anger, but
ecstasy.
To see two birds mate in mid-air is a strange thing. It
is a quick poking--- one might think they were exchanging fervent secrets
through their genitals. The seagulls and ducks shared many secrets, poking
whispers at one then frantically flapping off to tell another.
It was a swirling, interspecies orgy of feathers and fucking,
the air thick with a fog of seagull spunk, duck pud. Ripe eggs plummeted
and stained the King's car. Down fell like snowflakes.
The Queen of Ducks looked up with joyous laughter, and
the King of Seagulls tore himself to pieces in rage.
This story originally appeared
in Writer's Hood, October 2002