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[Michigan Sniper]

Here is a story I wrote in 9th grade for my English class. I have not touched it since then.


My Journey

My end was near. This much I knew, for I was neither stupid nor blind, and could see the cold, weathered hand descended upon me, open, ready to grab me. I tried to dive, but my attempt was in vain. “How can you do anything with a broken leg and wing?” I thought as I was taken.

That was the end of what I call ‘My Journey.’ This Journey began on the southern shores of Great Slave Lake in the Northwest Territories of Canada. I was born in early June, a pure Aythya americana, or for those of you less scientific minded, a Redhead. All my life would be a struggle. I was the first of ten to hatch and was my mother’s favorite. I was smart, and quickly learned how to survive, both from my mother and from my siblings’ mistakes. It’s a pity I had so many chances to learn from my brothers and sisters. Each time I learned something from them, they perished; some at the fury of a jack-fish, others by the talons of a marsh hawk, and still others by the teeth of the sly fox. I myself almost fell to the common cold.
At long last the summer was ending and the first cold-front was coming through. I had learned to fly better than my mother by now, so had no trouble keeping up with her when we departed for more temperate climes. As of then I had not been warned of hunters, so was not on the lookout for human predators. It was in Saskatchewan, just north of Saskatoon that I was made aware of their existence. Trusting my dear mother, as I had always done, I followed her in to land among a flock of what I presumed to be fellow Redheads. Upon our first fly-by we detected something evil hiding in the nearby reads, and decided to keep on going. I later asked my mother what we had seen and she replied that they were hunters and that they would become ever more numerous as we made our long journey south to the Laguna Madre along the Texas Coast. I, not knowing the meaning of ‘hunters,’ asked my mother what they did. She said that they put out fake ducks and, if you got close enough, would try to kill you. I knew I didn’t want to die, and became exceedingly wary whenever going in to land afterwards.
That had been in late September, and from then until the beginning of January I stayed safe with my mother. It was a warm winter, so we decided to spend it on Lake St. Clair rather than flying all the way to Texas. On January 3rd I saw no reason to be wary. I had not heard the boom of the hunters’ guns for a month or so. My mother and I went on an early morning flight to stretch our muscles before finding a nice place to feed and rest for the day. Toward the end of this flight we came upon a particularly good looking set of decoys. I was fooled, but my mother was not, so after a brief glance I coasted in to the middle of the group. She circled, watching for danger, and saw what I could not – a sneak boat. She was scared and flew on. I didn’t see her, so started to preen fine adult male plumage and otherwise ready myself for an introduction. During this time the hunters in the sneak boat were descending upon me. Slowly but surely, they inched toward me. I was oblivious to them, steadily preening my feathers. I wanted to impress these decoys, which I had failed to notice were not moving. I had my head behind my wing when I felt it. Cold steel ripping through me like hot irons. I came to my senses and attempted an escape. Again the painful shot ripped through me. As I took my last breath I wondered, “How can any duck survive?”

[harvey8542]

Great story