Young Writers Society

“Stop, mum!” Timothy pulled on his mother’s hand as they walked on a pedestrian bridge across the river. “I want to look at the ducks!” He leaned over the rail, his mother, Christa, being careful not to let the excited boy tumble off the edge. Had he fallen, though, Timothy wouldn’t have hit the water; he’d instead land on a sea of ducks.

“Welcome to the twenty-fourth annual duck race!” The presenter’s voice boomed throughout the park, and was met by the excited cheers of spectators. There were people everywhere; beside Tim and his mum on the bridge, on picnic mats across the grass, and within the various market tents which lined the river. But more populous than humans were the ducks: there were two thousand five hundred of them, to be exact. Their plastic, bright yellow figures all bobbed up and down in the river, waiting for the wind machine to push them along. The machine was at the far end of the park, where the river turned sharply, and when activated it would send strong gusts of air straight at the ducks to get them moving. The duck which reached the opposite side of the park first would be victorious, or rather, its owner would be. A hefty cash prize of one thousand dollars was on offer.

Timothy had his ticket tucked safely inside his pant pocket. It had the number of his winning racer written on it in thick black marker: number two thousand and twelve. As he looked beneath him at the hoard of yellow quakers, he tried to read their designations and find his champion.

“Can you see him, mum?” He tugged on her hand once more, and Christa reluctantly leant over the edge to join the search. “I reckon that’s him!” Timothy pointed his finger, but of course the ducks were so packed together that it was impossible to see which one he was aiming at. He knew which one it was, though; he could just make out the ‘2012’ on the creature’s back.

“I reckon it is,” Christa said, agreeing though she had no idea. “Now shall we go sit down? I don’t want to get soaked…” It had been drizzling steadily on and off throughout the morning, and the rain was evident in the sludgy grass and refreshing smell that drifted through the air. The raindrops were pit-pattering on the concrete bridge, getting louder and louder. Christa had her eye on the gazebo, currently only inhabited by a couple of families.

This time she tugged on Tim’s hand and said, “C’mon, before it gets too crowded.”

“Oh, alright,” he groaned, “if we have to.” Timothy waved goodbye to his prized duck, and then patted his pant pocket to ensure that the ticket was still there. It was essential that he had that piece of paper when it came time to collect his prize money; which Timothy was certain he’d win.

“It’s almost time to race!” The presenter declared, and Timothy covered his ears with his hands as Christa led him past a speaker. “I bet the ducks’ll love this bit of wet weather! Look! The rain’s getting them all excited!” Finally, just as the drops got uncomfortably heavy, Christa pushed through the final crowd of spectators on the riverbank and had a clear path to the gazebo. She ran to the shelter with Timothy beside her, practically holding him up as he attempted to run backwards. The boy’s full attention was on the ducks. The operator had turned the wind machine on, just to its lowest setting, so that the ducks danced in place amongst the rain. Tim knew his duck was getting warmed up, ready to swim to victory.

“Thank goodness,” Christa slumped down on a bench under the gazebo, “that was close.” As she spoke, the heavens opened and water poured down on the crowd. The weather created a crescendo on the gazebo roof as the drops got heavier and more frequent. Timothy wasn’t really happy about being stuck in there; he wanted to be on the grass with all the other children, jumping in puddles and shouting encouragement to their quackers. But he had a clear view of all the ducks, a blanket of yellow on the river, so he was content enough. Tim snuggled up in his mother’s lap as the presenter began his countdown.

“And it’s time to begin! Is everyone ready? Okay! Ten…” The two of them joined in the countdown, shouting out numbers in unison with all the other spectators. “Seven!” Timothy reached into his pant pocket and gripped onto the paper, his winning ticket crinkling in his fist. “Three!” The wind machine chugged to life, its fan gaining momentum. “One!” And the ducks were off!“Go! Go! Go!” Timothy shouted, his childish yells lost amongst thousands of other voices. The yellow specks flew along the river, bumping into each other as they went. Some tipped onto their backs, and would have stopped still if they weren’t pushed along by those ducks behind them. Tim tried to find two thousand and twelve, but they wouldn’t stay still long enough for him to focus on just one. He instead watched the row of ducks in front, constantly swapping places with each others as they swam over ripples and around obstacles.

“Who’s in front, I wonder?!” The presenter could hardly be heard amidst everyone’s shouts; they were both cheering on their plastic athletes and cursing at those in the back of the group. The blanket of yellow got closer and closer to the finish line, cameras lined up and waiting to capture the victor, since it was impossible for the human eye to decide. All at once, the rope strung across the water was hit by a stampede of ducks, and the race was over.

“Aaaaaand they’ve done it! The race is over, folks! Now to view the footage; I wonder who won?!” The presenter was at the finish line, holding a video camera in his hands whilst a helper sheltered him with an umbrella. Timothy anxiously gripped onto the ticket, desperately wishing for two thousand and twelve to be the winning duck. Christa swayed her legs back and forth, both comforting her son and trying to warm them up; like most of the parents there, she was eager to just go home get out of the wet weather.

“We’ve got our winner!” The presenter’s voice roared over the pit-patter of rain. “One thousand and seventy six!” Timothy’s heart sank, and his fist enclosed completely, crushing the losing ticket into a little ball. Two thousand and twelve had failed him! He felt tears mix with the rain drops on his cheeks, but brushed them away with his fist.

“Sorry, Timmy,” Christa squeezed him in her arms, resting her chin on his warm head. “I’m sure your duck was close.” The little boy ignored his mother, and instead stared longingly at the man who was shaking the presenter’s hand, claiming his prize of one thousand dollars. Another one of the kids in the gazebo was crying, obviously disappointed with their duck’s loss, but Timothy scoffed and wiped his eyes again; he was stronger than that. He thought of two thousand and twelve, bobbing up and down at the finish line, and the disappointment his duck must have been feeling.

“Two thousand and twelve was in the lead,” he said to Christa, his childish mind reasoning, “but one thousand and seventy six pushed him over!” He jumped off her lap, and promptly ran through the crowds of spectators to the riverside, where he could comfort his defeated, but extremely faithful duck. Timothy was certain that with a little bit of training, come next year’s duck race, two thousand and twelve would be victorious.