Duck, Duck, Goose, by Rob Moreschi

14 Jun 2012

Duck.

Don’t pick me, don’t pick me, don’t pick me. I hate being the goose. Actually, it’s not that bad. But then if I catch him, who do I pick? Jennifer? No, then she’ll definitely know I like her. Whatever, I don’t have to think about it, I’m not going to get picked.

Duck.

He’s getting closer, I’m definitely getting picked. He’s staring right at me. I don’t want to have to get up and run, I’m perfectly comfortable right here.

Duck.

Seriously, why is he smirking like that, what’s his problem? I know he’s going to pick me. Then I’m going to have to chase him. And I know I’m going to do something embarrassing like trip on my shoelace and fall on my face in front of EVERYONE.

Duck.

Come on, that’s like the fourth duck! Is that even legal? It’s all because I told him last Tuesday at recess that I could beat him in a race. Well if he wants to race, then race we will.

Duck.

Well, I’m next. There’s no way he’s going to a sixth duck. That’s unheard of. NOBODY goes six ducks deep and lives to tell about it.

Goose.

Here we go.

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