Barnaby stuffed his pockets with screws, duct tape, and a half-empty jar of pickles (for ‘structural integrity’), then marched into Pinecone Creek’s town square like a man on a mission. The festival committee had begged him to build a ‘community art piece,’ but Barnaby, ever the visionary, had other ideas. ‘A duck,’ he declared to no one in particular, eyeing the abandoned gazebo. ‘Giant. Wooden. Proud.’
By noon, the gazebo was a skeleton of planks, and Barnaby’s hair looked like a squirrel’s nest. Mrs. Peabody, the town’s official grump, squinted at his blueprint—a stick figure with a wobbly beak. ‘That’s a duck?’ she scoffed. ‘More like a confused ostrich.’ Barnaby ignored her, too busy welding a bicycle wheel to the duck’s underbelly for ‘dynamic balance.’
At 3 p.m., the duck stood 12 feet tall, creaking like a tired grandfather. The crowd oohed. Then, a gust of wind. The duck tilted. A child screamed. The duck toppled, taking a mailbox, a statue of a dancing cow, and three unsuspecting toddlers with it. Chaos ensued: pickles rolled, feathers (from a thrift-store costume) fluttered, and Barnaby emerged from the pile, face covered in glue, grinning like a madman. ‘It’s… avant-garde,’ he said, as the mayor facepalmed. The duck, now a tangled heap of wood and existential dread, became the town’s most popular attraction. Even the cows came to stare.
