Yellow duck belongs to Berkaycagdas
A tiny rubber duck floated down the canals of Venice.
Beside it, a human being floated, stretched on his back – crucified, except that water flowed between his legs, and one was askew.
Casually his trouser legs flapped in the current, even as he stared sightlessly at the sky. He was alive, but barely. With meagre breaths, the lonely corpse moved down the historic riviera, followed by its little bright companion, largely unnoticed by denizens of the streets – it was too early and the sky was still a rich gradient of red, white band and rich blue – “Yugoslavia,” he thought.
On, and on, he drifted, thankful he never collided with moored boats or the canal sides, until he reached the Grand Canal. He noticed it by the sudden expansion of light around his vision, that blinded him, the sun in the sky just below his line of sight.
Then a scream, as he was discovered at last. At last.
That was enough and all that mattered. He gave in, sank internally, and his eyes closed.
Beside him, the little duck got caught in the turbulence of the great waters and was swiftly whipped off to sea, carrying the final will of its owner, and the dread secret of the continent – only to be picked up by a small child on her beach playtime, and spark off the manhunt of the century.