I co-wrote this story with a fourteen-year-old girl. I’m quite chuffed with how it turned out. It’s entertaining. It’s well-written. It has an interesting protagonist. And above all: it keeps making unexpected turns. It’s a good story, even if I say so myself. I’m proud of this one. I really am.

Please note that this is just the three first pages of the story. If you want to read the rest (an additional 5 pages), PM me and I’ll send you a pdf version.

I was
enjoying a sense of purposefulness, feeling comfortable in knowing I was fully
prepared and that I was nearly there. My left hand was clutching a bag of
bread, this week’s leftovers, and my happy pace was taking me fast along nicely
kept paths to the bench and the ducks. All around me were familiar noises:
giggling toddlers, yapping dogs, the bell over at the ice cream booth, the
shoof shoof of joggers overtaking me. For a brief moment I let my excitement
get the better of me and I waved enthusiastically at a fisherman sunbathing
next to his rod who politely pretended he didn’t notice. But I was in too good
a mood to feel put off by this.

My mood
made it difficult for me to stop smiling smugly at everyone I caught pretending
not to be staring at me. Whenever I overtook someone, I could feel their eyes
lingering on my back even before I turned around and saw them quickly look
elsewhere. They were most likely noticing my happiness. It had happened before,
when someone I didn’t even know had actually addressed me for that precise
reason: “You look really happy,” she said to me. I can hardly be blamed for
wanting to walk with a spring in my step, now can I? There’s too many sour
faces around as it is. And I wasn’t the only one in a good mood around, either:
There was plenty of laughter, from multiple voices, just a bit further ahead.

It took a
while before I realised where exactly it came from: a number of youngsters had
taken possession of the bench. There were five of them, all baggy trousers,
baseball caps and sitting on the back of the bench. Already several empty beer
cans lay strewn around. They weren’t even crumpled up properly.

No full cans
seemed to be around, so it looked like they were boozing their way through
their last round. I decided to wait until they had left, but that meant I had
to stick around to be the first to claim the bench. It’s not that I’ve got
anything against the other benches, far from it, but I simply like this one
best. It’s sheltered by a number of bushes that exude pleasant scents in
summer, and the view of the lake is most varied from there.

I started
pacing around in my best impression of an aimless visitor: I bend over to
examine a fallen leaf, leaned against a tree and stood still from time to time
to take in the surroundings with a magnanimous face. I walked around the bench
in big circles, so as to keep it in eye sight. Not that I minded extending my
walk, though I did leave off the happy pace. The idea that I might draw their
attention was frightening: their voices were too loud.

I think it
was my hat that first caught their eye; it was the first thing they shouted
funny remarks at, anyway. That was during my fourth lap. The first can they
threw in my direction was badly aimed and struck a bush instead, but when they
started picking up empty cans off the ground it was time to clear off. I went
for a walk around the lake instead, which I knew takes about half an hour. I
was counting on their limited concentration span to have forgotten all about me
by the time I’d come back. I’d read that most youngsters these days have
difficulties in focussing on one activity for any length of time, and I
expected them to lose interest in a silly little corner of the park pretty
soon. As predicted by this theory, they were gone when I returned to the bench
and found it empty. Or perhaps they had gone off to harass other people. Either
way, I felt immensely better: now I could finally do what I had come to do:
relax, think and feed the ducks.

People
usually think it rather odd that an adult, self-sufficient man would admit to
such childish pastimes. It’s one of the obligatory remarks at the family
gatherings I infrequently attend. “How’ve the ducks been?” they will ask me, or
“Haven’t you grown up yet?” in a voice they use for people who, for lack of a
happy childhood, take up toy boats or miniature steam trains. It’s as if they
make a point of drawing everyone’s attention to my silly little habit; and if
they fail to make snide comments on it, I sometimes casually ask whether I can
take home the leftover bread. Just to get it over with: they’ll still all look
at me disapprovingly, but presenting them with the bait takes the hook out of
their hurtful remarks. So why do I keep doing it? It is calming; and sometimes
broadly grinning toddlers will run up to me and join me. I’ve found that this
simple activity provides me with some of the attention and indeed the affection
I lack in my professional and private life. The ducks listen without contempt
to the many theories and ideas I develop, requiring only a bagful of dry bread
in return. So there I was, seated on a sheltered bench at the edge of the great
central lake, getting my weekly dose of affectionate quacking. It was most
 soothing.

When my
bread was spent, I remained there for some time, quietly mulling over various
ways in which the foul water hereabouts affected my winged friends’ digestive
system. Need I explain what horror I felt when I saw a band of unattended
toddlers who had discovered the joys of impacting the world around them (I
immediately attributed their behaviour to this psychological basis) had decided
to chase away any swan or duck they spotted by pelting them with pebbles. They
could be no older than five or six, and already they were actively enjoying the
violence. I quickly scanned the area for their parents, and I spotted them
chatting loudly at the counter of an open-air bar. I recognized them readily
enough by the colourful coats and bags their offspring had left with them.

Perhaps the
bushes around my bench would hide us from the obviously aggressive toddlers. They
were broad-leafed and in bloom and I could have sat there stark naked without
anyone noticing. I was inwardly urging them to go and play somewhere else, but
it was too late: they came running, screaming as they hurled large pebbles. In
the blink of an eye the hungry congregation at my feet had scattered across the
bank and into the lake. I didn’t think any of them were seriously hurt; but
they had most definitely been frightened.

I’ve never
considered myself obnoxious, or excessively aggressive, and I’m the first to
admit that children ought to be allowed to play and be children, but this was
something different altogether. Apart from the gratuitous cruelty to animals, I
was genuinely piqued at the arrogant disregard for other people these children
had shown. It was too uncomfortable, too much like my earlier experiences with
today’s youngsters that morning. The same unfocussed aggression, the same bland
amusement at having asserted themselves to the detriment of others. They had
acted as if they could just interrupt anyone’s occupations without care for
their feelings, or indeed, without even noticing them: already they were moving
away, their shrill laughter an anticipation of further mischief. A mild form of
psychological retribution was in order.

I got up
from my bench and approached the aggressors, who were squealing with delight
and boasting about the number of ducks
they had hit. Again I did my impression of an aimless visitor, walking past
them at a leisurely pace. As soon as I had come close enough I grabbed one of
the violent little critters. She had long blonde curls in four tails and blue
eyes. She would do just fine: making this angelic face cry would more than
redress the balance she had help upset. The girl happened to be chewing on a
pinkish blob of bubblegum and before she or her nasty gang had recovered from
their surprise, I had taken it out of her wide open mouth and put it in my own.
I made a very smug face while doing so — I know it is very smug, because I used
to practice it in front of my mirror until I got it right. I thought it suavest
to simply turn away without saying a word and let her alarmed weeping grow
 fainter.

It was a
most exhilarating experience. I felt elated; even my happy pace was not enough
to express how delighted I felt at this. Why would this simple act of taking
justice in my own hands move me so? Then I realised it was not that I had
somehow redressed a balance that had make such an impact, but the realisation
that I had not been ignored. For one brief moment, I had been the centre of
that girl’s life, the focus of her attention. And her playmates, as well. It
appeared that even I was not immune to the desire to impact the world around
 me.

The many
articles I had read on child psychology and recalcitrant, trouble-making
youngsters these days all came back to me with an unexpected clarity. One
notion that had stood out was that of negative attention, and up to then I had
always imagined it as pure egoism, the bratsy results of bad parenting. I had
been wrong. It was an utterly gratifying sensation. I had never expected its
effects to be so forceful.

If the
effects of even this relatively insignificant psychological punishment felt so
stimulating, I decided I wanted to repeat the experience many times over. I
chewed vigorously in anticipation.

By the time
I had robbed two more little children of their bubblegum, the newness of the
phenomenon was beginning to wear off. Furthermore, the accumulated gum mass was
making the actual chewing increasingly difficult. It might be a good idea to
redistribute my gains to the original victims, the ducks, and enjoy some more
positive attention. So I returned to the lake side.

Back at my
bench I tore off bits and pieces of vaguely white-coloured chewing gum and
strewed them around me. Pretty soon a whole horde of hungry ducks were gathered
around me, happily pecking away. One of the larger ducks stood out. It was
extremely dominant, even greedy, and it managed to lay claim to most of the
fragments I tossed into the water. The reason I remember this duck so well is
that it soon started to cough and quack most peculiarly; apparently the bubble
gum had not lost enough of its cohesiveness; Horrified, well-nigh petrified, I
was only able to stand and watch as the duck gradually lost the ability to
inhale. Even my own breathing grew more difficult. The duck could now no longer
cough. Writhing and twisting, its violent spasms made it sink, hacking up air
bells at irregular intervals, until that, too, stopped. I knew then that it
lived no more.

The other
ducks had once again scattered. For a horrible moment I was unable to interpret
or even comprehend this unforeseen death. I stared blankly at where the spasms
of the dying duck had churned the water and at the pale foam that jerkily
floated this way and that. For a moment I couldn’t help wondering how polluted
this water really was.

Perhaps
this might be a sign: I would not be redressing the balance between positive
and negative attention in my life today. Indeed, why not continue seeking
negative attention from crying children, which had proven to be most
satisfactory? I had to find another way of going about it than stealing their
bubblegum, though. Maybe I could involve the late duck in the proceedings. A
methodical execution of a well thought-out plan would most likely maximize the
negative attention that was to be gotten from little children.