A Sitting Duck

This story was written for Mackenzie Davis' Ekphrastic Challenge.

I’ve got a shotgun tucked into my canoe. It’s not my gun. I hate guns. I borrowed this one from my uncle. He’ll get it back after I blow my brains out.

My oar slices into the still water. Left. Right. Left. The canoe glides quietly forward. With a few strokes, I manage to get far enough away from the house that the sound won’t wake them up. Distant gunshots are common in these woods. It’s hunting ground.

Now that I’ve set my mind to it, I’m actually pretty calm. It’s quiet out here. Just the water lapping the sides of the canoe. The sky is a pleasant shade of early morning blue.

I position the butt of the gun between my feet. Then I bend over slightly so the end of the barrel fits right under my chin. It’s cold. I rest my thumb on the trigger and - “QUACK!”

What the fuck was that?

“QUACK!” Louder this time.

I lift my head and take my thumb off the trigger to see where the sound is coming from. I expect to see a duck, but all I see is a tangled mess of reeds, fallen branches, and plastic trash on the riverbank.

I row closer and the quacks get more desperate. I drag my canoe out of the water to have a better look around. Very unusual to see a duck this time of year.

I’ll satisfy my curiosity first, then I’ll kill myself.

Parting the reeds with both hands, I spot a lump wiggling around inside a plastic bag. I find the opening and peel it back to reveal a little brown ducking. At least I think it’s brown. He’s covered in muck like one of those Dawn dish detergent ads where they use it to clean wildlife after an oil spill. He’s quacking his little ass off now and staring at me.

I’m not sure what he’s trying to communicate or why he doesn’t just waddle away. Then I notice one of his feet pinned under a tree branch. I attempt to pick it up, but most of the branch is buried deep in the mud and there are several other heavier branches on top. It’s such a tangled mess, it’s difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. We’ve had a few nasty storms lately, resulting in a lot of fallen branches.

Poor thing.

I reach for the shotgun. If an animal is wounded, you’re supposed to put them down. It’s the merciful thing to do. I aim.

A sitting duck.

Then I’m not sure why, but my heart starts beating fast. The calm is gone. I feel a sudden urgency to put down the gun and move the branches.

That’s right. Fuck these branches and fuck that plastic bag!

I go at it like a madman, but they won’t budge. I need leverage. I grab the gun, make sure the safety is engaged, then use the barrel to pry the branches loose. The duckling struggles free and waddles through my legs. When I turn around, he is sitting there waiting, staring at me.

“You can go now.”

The quacking has stopped, but he doesn’t move. I look around for more ducks, his family or whatever. He’s all alone.

I scoop him up gently in both hands and put him in the front pocket of my sweatshirt, so I can row the canoe. When I get back to the house, I put the gun back where I found it. I tip toe into the kitchen, grab the dish soap off the sink and a salad bowl from the cupboard.

Then I head to the backyard, fill the bowl with suds and water from the hose. I take the duckling out of my pocket. I worry that he hasn’t quacked since the river. Thankfully, his eyes are open. I place him in the bowl. He flaps and shakes off the suds and excess water.

“It’s not Dawn soap, but I think It’ll do.”

After his bath, I risk bringing him back inside. I cradle him in a dish towel. He looks up at me with his big black shiny Disney Pixar eyes. I grab my phone and take a pic just to prove to myself that he’s real.

This photograph that was the inspiration for this piece was taken by Vocal author, Rachel Fendrich.

Thank you Rachel and thank you, Mackenzie!