The huge, rubber ducky just appeared out of nowhere one morning. No one knew where it came from. No one claimed responsibility. But there it was, towering on a plaza between the buildings like a sunlit sentinel. Ten stories high, glowing orange in the morning light, its beady black eyes seemed almost too cheerful for something so impossibly large.
As news of the giant duck spread across social media, crowds quickly gathered, phones out, voices buzzing. Children laughed, some adults cried, some prayed, and a few skeptics mumbled about marketing stunts.
But the duck never moved. Never blinked. Never deflated.
People stopped going to work. Musicians played beneath its shade. Some food trucks parked nearby, including one that served grilled cheese sandwiches on toast shaped like the rubber ducky.
It became a place of pilgrimage, absurd but oddly calming. Some even started to worship it. It was as if the world had agreed to pause for something delightfully meaningless. Or maybe full of meaning.
Still, no one claimed responsibility. No government, no artist, no company.
And so it stayed.
Until, one morning, as mysteriously as it had arrived, it was gone without a trace.
People were saddened by its disappearance. Some even felt a tragic sense of loss. And the site where the ducky first appeared became a holy site where people gathered to pray for the ducky’s second coming.
Written for Melissa’s Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge. Photo credit: Vitaly Mazur on Unsplash.
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