Feed The Ducks

​As the little boy next to me fed the ducks stale bread, I dreamt of what it would be like to break his
nose. I would use a fist, just like my father had taught me, and I’d bend my elbow before forcing my
palm up and into his nose. Blood would be everywhere, and I’d say, “Bread kills, little boy. Bread kills the ducks.” He’d be crying so hard he wouldn’t be able to hear me so I’d grab him by my collar – why was he wearing a collar on a dreadful summer day anyway – and I’d bring his ears right up to my lips. “Bread. kills,” I would say, but this time he would hear it, and this time he would stop crying. “Do you
understand?” I’d ask, but I would already know how well he understood me. I’d set him down and nod so that he could run back to his mother and maybe cry some more. She would be scared of me and of what I had done, and she would rush away with her child. But the boy would explain. The boy would warn her to never give him bread ever again to take to the pond. Because if people shouldn’t eat stale bread, then neither should the ducks.

My daydream came to an abrupt end as the little boy walked over to me with a genuine smile on his
face. Was he about to break my nose? Did he think I was in the wrong?

“Here.”

I took the bread. I stood with the little boy and we threw pieces of stale bread at the ducks. Eventually, I put my hair up in a bun and walked away.