The Little Brown Ducky

You know you want to.

The Little Brown Ducky

Ben was just an ordinary sort, a plain-looking, gray-haired older man who had worked hard for his living for most of his natural existence. Lately he had also been working on a bit of a whim, trying to realize a dream that had only appeared occasionally as a faint glimmer against the backdrop of his subconscious mind. Ben had begun writing about life, about his experiences, and fiction.

One recent morning, Ben was just awakening from a somewhat fitful night's sleep. As had happened so many times of late, he had been up late in front of his computer composing a story, a product of his vivid imagination. It was a post-apocalyptic short story, complete with a single surviving civilization, a king, wild beasts and various intriguing problems. Ben stumbled into the kitchen, thinking about getting a first cup of coffee.

There, sitting at Ben's computer, was Herman, a man he had only recently met.

“Herman!” cried Ben, “How the hell did you get in here?? What are you doing on my computer?”

Herman turned and smiled, still tapping on the keyboard. “You never lock the door at night, dumbass,” he replied matter-of-factly. “And what does it look like I'm doing? I'm writing!”

“And who, might I ask, gave you permission to use my computer? It sure wasn't me! How did you get past my password-protected desktop?”

Herman grinned, a big white smile on a rather handsome and craggy face. “I know it. Same as you do.”

“You know what?” Ben frowned.

“The password.”

Ben had only been surprised at first, but that emotion was quickly becoming annoyance. His frown darkened into a threatening stare. But Herman was obviously younger, physically much stronger, and Ben had discovered, Herman was also smarter. He'd lived a life on the edge, feared nothing, and he generally threw all caution to the wind. Herman lived for new experiences, for primal excitement. But none of that could be permitted to matter.

“I think you had better explain,” Ben growled, “before I throw you out. Physically. You don't just come walking into a man's home, start using his stuff...”

“Ben. I live here.”

“Shut the fuck up. You do not.”

“Sit down, Ben. I made you a cup of coffee. Just the way we like it.”

Ben sat down, slowly and carefully. What the hell was going on here? Herman slid a steaming cup of coffee across the table. Ben sampled it. Perfect.

“Okay, buddy, get with it. Explain to me what's going on.”

Herman turned from the computer and stared seriously into Ben's face. “I think you know.”

Images flashed through Ben's mind, images of sitting up and writing, far into the night until the first glow of morning light threatened to break over the eastern mountains. More images, of adventure and of intrigue. A life that hadn't happened but that it seemed, really had. He shook his head vigorously. “No!”

Cocking his head to one side, Herman looked up at Ben, his face still canted toward the floor. “You got it.” He paused. “Say it!”

“Here's what I'll say, asshole. We are not the same man!”

Herman laughed, a cocky, smart-assed, fundamentally annoying laugh. “We are, and you damn well know it. I am your inner writer.”

“You're crazy!”

“No,” Herman responded, “You're crazy.”

“Ahh, haha, I get it. This is the movie Fight Club revisited! One of my most favorite movies. And you, my friend, are Jack's Wasted Life.” Ben sat back and took a drink of his coffee. Now, he was amused.

Herman frowned. “Which one of us is the 'wasted life' is a matter of opinion. I don't wanna get shot like Tyler did in the movie, so I don't plan to take over. Not yet, anyway. And it's my favorite movie. Numero uno.” Herman turned back to the computer. “This story is finished. I'm just filling out the info to submit it. This should change our life.”

“Hey, let me see that. That's not my Greenhaven!”

Herman vaporized, unnoticed by Ben. Ben sat down at the computer, and began to read.

**************

The scene is the fiction editor's office at a major magazine in a major city, on a Friday morning. An editorial assistant, whose job it is to screen out obvious losers among the hundreds of submissions received monthly, has tapped on the open door and is apparently asking for a few moments of the editor's highly valuable time.

“What is it, Maria? Another “dud” you want me to look at? How many is this, this week? Five?”

“Um, I'm awfully sorry ma'am, sometimes I just don't know what to think. I am kinda new at this...and you told us to keep an eye out for anything with an unusual format or an avant- garde style. I really don't understand that, I guess. I really wish you'd have a look. Tell me what I'm supposed to be looking for.”

“Oh, all right. You've got to begin to make judgments yourself, you know. Let me see it.”

The editor took the printout from the assistant's hand, and noted with some concern the seemingly goofy, lopsided grin on her face. “What the heck is this,” she wondered.

“The Little Brown Ducky??”

She sat down and began to read.

Once upon a time there was a little brown ducky. The little brown ducky swam up and down the creek, looking for his mommy. But his mommy was nooowhere to be found.

“Are you kidding me, Maria? Where did you say you were from?”

Maria was standing on the other side of the editor's desk, her left hand supporting her elbow and her right hand partially over her face, obviously trying to stifle a laugh. “Chile,” she snorted.

“And you can read English, right?”

Maria nodded, chortling. She sat down. The editor read on.

This ducky was a very special ducky, but he had no idea he was special. He missed his mommy, but he knew she probably had better things to do. He thought to himself, “I'm hungry.” So he went looking for somethings to eat.

Actually, all duckies are all pretty special. Their bills may look cute, but they are lined inside with razor-sharp “teeth”. Zoologists don't want to think that duckies chew, you see, so they rationalize that all of those little holes are used as a sieve. But if one of these smart-assed zo-babies had ever been chomped by a duckie, he would damn well know better.

So the little brown ducky swam up and down the creek some more, sampling a little of this and a little of that. Moss from the bank of the stream, green water plants, the occasional minnow. The minnows were pretty good, the moss sucked. So the little brown ducky, still wearing his baby fuzz around his little throat, decided to concentrate on eating things that moved. Why, some duckies take years to reach that realization. But this ducky knew it almost right away.

“Really, Maria! I have no time for garbage like this. Maybe you'd better look for another line of work!” The editor shoved the pages at her assistant, and disgustedly plopped back down in her chair.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, we were laughing about it and I got the short straw. It won't happen again.” Maria hustled out of the editor's office and down the hallway.

A few minutes later, the editor passed by the reviewing room where her assistants worked. The three of them were standing together while one of them read to the others. All of them were laughing. Even from the hallway, the editor could see it was the same “piece of work”. She shook her head and walked on.

At the end of the day, however, curiosity go the better of her. Usually submissions came in via email and were never printed. Her assistants had been provided with large, low-radiation flatscreen monitors, and a rough sorting from that point usually eliminated more than ninety percent of them. The editor wasn't about to waste productive time on such a thing, but if that piece was in the round file, she just might take it home to see what was so amusing. Probably it was just because the girls were all so young. She ventured into the reviewing room and sure enough, there it was in the trash can, right on top. She took it out and carried it back to her office.

She'd been more curious than she had realized. She sat down, turned the page and read on.

For days and some nights, the little brown ducky wandered up and down the creek, scooping up minnows, attacking feisty crawdads, and eating the earthworms that were unlucky enough to have shown themselves near the water's edge. And he began to grow. Most nights he slept with his little ducky head under one wing like other duckies, but his hunger was so ravenous that sometimes, he stalked the woods during the night near the water's edge, looking for something bigger to eat.

Zoologists will tell you that duckies never do this. It's just another thing they don't know about duckies.

Then one day, the little brown ducky decided to expand his ducky horizons, and to move downstream. There, almost a mile away from his usual scavenging area, he spotted his mommy, swimming slowly downstream! The little brown ducky, all excited, swam for all he could go, flapping his little wings to add to his speed. He was getting closer and closer.

Suddenly two huge creatures stood up. They had been hiding behind some branches, but now they were pointing somethings at the little brown ducky's mommy. Startled, she rose into the air, trying to get away. BOOM, BOOM! His mommy dropped into the water, obviously not her idea at all. Then another big creature, all sleek and black, came running out on four legs and dove into the creek, swam over to his mommy and scooped up her body. It carried the ducky's mommy back to the bigger creatures, who patted the four-legged creature's head, and then they stuck his mommy into a bag.

Needless to say, the little brown ducky was devastated, and frightened almost out of his little mind. He sat very still in the water, hoping the creatures had not seen him. They hadn't. The little brown ducky was still too small. The creatures moved on down the stream, leaving the traumatized little ducky behind. A stinging tear rolled down his ducky cheek. He thought he would never forget this day, or those horrible creatures.

The really special thing about this little brown ducky, didn't show on the outside. Not yet. He looked just like all the other little duckies that had been hatched that year. But inside, the little brown ducky had a genetic abnormality. There was nothing in his DNA coding to tell his body when to stop growing. And so, he was extra-specially hungry, all the time.

After just a few more weeks, nothing was safe from the little brown ducky, in his home creek abode. He began to eat everything. Whole fish, frogs, water snakes. Big ones. He had already become the biggest ducky ever, bigger than a tom turkey. And his success at finding food only made him all the hungrier. So he almost never slept. Instead, he wandered the woods, looking for more somethings to eat. Soon he discovered there were snakes on land that he could eat, and he also began to eat mammals. First it was just moles and mice, but occasionally an unwary rabbit would venture close enough.

Eventually, the little brown ducky was no more. He had become the Mega-Mallard from Hell. More than six feet long from bill-tip to tail-tip, he stood nearly five feet tall. And his appetite had become more ravenous than ever. Deer, foxes and even bears were surprised and alarmed when they saw this gigantic apparition of a duck. They knew instinctively to avoid large animals, especially if they were unknown.

One unlucky fisherman had hiked to the creek, and was amazed to find there were no fish to be had. He was an expert fly-caster, and he expected success. It was not his first trip to this stream. But now, there was nothing alive. No bugs, no snakes, no plants at the water's edge, and certainly no fish. It was the spookiest thing he had ever seen. He decided to get out of there, before whatever had done this showed up.

He was too late.

Monster Mallard saw the fisherman before the fisherman saw Monster Mallard. The gigantic duck took a peck at him, taking his creel and his landing net. The fisherman cried out and ran. Monster Mallard didn't like the taste of the creel, so he didn't pursue. So maybe the fisherman wasn't so unlucky, although he did make the mistake of telling his friends about the monster duck. When they realized he was serious, they had him committed.

Back at the creek, Monster Mallard was now on his way to becoming MegaDucky. It was fall, and the formerly little brown ducky had just found a valuable food source. It was Farmer Miller's fifty-acre corn field. As every ducky knows, corn is the best grain of all. MegaDucky grew, and grew.

Then one day the duck hunters returned to MegaDucky's creek. MegaDucky had, in fact, forgotten what had happened to his mommy. But justice was finally served anyway, as a snackie for MegaDucky. Thwup, thwup. Arf, thwup. Alll gone.

Just for the sake of comparison, MegaDucky would never quite achieve the distinction of becoming the world's largest land animal that ever lived. Nevertheless, he did most certainly reach the point where he had become the largest land animal in existence. Towering forty feet in height at his back, he would have been much taller if his head was up. But it almost never was. He was too busy shoveling up somethings to eat, at every opportunity, which was all the time. He was now as long as two Greyhound buses parked end-to-end, and his wings spanned the width of a football field. Even though Farmer Miller's field had been surrounded by forests, of course MegaDucky was no longer a secret. People were so intent on observing him that no one ever thought to console and release the poor fisherman from the mental hospital. Helicopters thudded overhead, sightseeing charter planes buzzed circles around Farmer Millers place, and even Farmer Miller got in on it, selling parking to curious and amazed onlookers.

Poor MegaDucky was reaching a point where an undiversified diet would cause him trouble. Ask anyone who hardly ever eats fruit, or look at a growing child that doesn't get enough calcium. So although he was one of a kind in the world, he nevertheless instinctively knew what kinds of somethings he could no longer find in sufficient quantity, near the creek of his birth or in Farmer Miller's devastated fields. He would have to relocate.

Although he had not taken flight since his tail feathers had been sixty feet closer to his bill, his body was still proportionally the same as any other Mallard duck. That's one thing the zoologists do understand. Mallards are very good at flying. MegaDucky had never doubted his ability to fly. He took three running steps, covering about seventy yards, and took to the air, the largest and most magnificent duck ever to fly anywhere above the surface of the planet.

Of course, this action on MegaDucky's part was of great and immediate concern to the humans in charge of homeland security. National Guard units were called out and F-16's were scrambled. Of course, since MegaDucky didn't understand any of these things, he wasn't worried at all. With his mega-wings, he could easily cover great distances. And so he did.

As MegaDucky approached the city, the F-16s were ordered to pull back, because they didn't want to frighten him and to cause him to land. Everyone hoped the monstrous bird would overfly and clear the city, and soon after that, he would descend. Plans were being considered to end poor MegaDucky's life because of the potential threat he posed to the safety of humans.

Indeed, MegaDucky could see that the paradise he sought was not the city. He dreamed of big water with big fish that were more suited to his size. However, before he flew on, MegaDucky did have a contribution to make. He had eaten a cow that morning, and he hadn't pooped yet.

Far below, the fiction editor of a major magazine had just finished up her work day. She had walked to the parking garage, had gotten into her new yellow Audi S5 convertible, and had turned out onto the street to wend her way home.

MegaDucky really liked that bright yellow something down there. He judged the windspeed and direction instinctively, took careful aim, led his moving target, and he cut loose.

A gelatinous mass of gooey, slimy, disgusting ducky poo went sailing earthward, soon approaching a speed near terminal velocity. The drop took many seconds but it was dead on target. The yellow something stopped.

MegaDucky smiled, a cute li'l ducky smile.

When the firetrucks and the police arrived on the scene of the carnage wrought by MegaDucky, the fire chief just shook his head. “What do they want us to do, hose it down? Would you think there could be anybody alive under all of that crap?”

Just then, they all heard a muffled “helllp!!” The firemen, heroes to the last, waded in to save a life.

The End

The fiction editor had so many different thoughts and feelings coming on as she finished the story, that at first she was only confused. The girls had thought this was hilarious? The reasons for that escaped her. Hmm. A t the same time, why would anyone write such a thing? It could only be sour grapes. It had to be some upset would-be author who'd suffered too many rejections.

The more she thought about it, the more miffed she became. She looked for the name of the author. Benjamin Trayne. What an ass.

When the editorial assistants returned to work the following Monday morning, They were met with two memos, in all caps. The first one stated, “ALL SUBMISSIONS FROM BENJAMIN TRAYNE ARE TO BE IMMEDIATELY DELETED!!” The second followed, “DO NOT RESPOND WITH THE USUAL REJECTION NOTE. DO NOT RESPOND PERIOD.”

*********************

Old Ben sighed. He turned from the computer screen to see Herman facing him but sitting backward on the chair, leaning on its backrest, his chin resting on folded arms. His ball cap was on backward, and he was grinning. “You don't do anything like anybody else, do you?” Ben asked drily.

“Correction, old buddy, we don't do it like anybody else.”

“But why the hell would you want to embarrass us? You, I mean we, even wrote that it seems like sour grapes. We acknowledge it will only blow away our future chances at getting published...”

“Hey,” Herman fired back, “What chances? Haven't you been in on the submissions we've made? That was our best stuff! And if I do say so myself, it wasn't bad! But it isn't what they want for their mag!!”

“Well maybe the next one...”

“Look, buddy, what they want is not the way we write,” Herman replied. “They are looking for a very specific kind of fiction. We've read what they publish. Sometimes it's who the author is, sometimes the choice is motivated by a tale that embraces the general viewpoint of their readership. Sometimes they think they see art, and usually we wouldn't see it that way. The point is, we're wasting our time with this magazine. Accept it. Take some responsibility.”

“I do, I am responsible. And you're right, the pieces submitted were good. But maybe they could have been better. Maybe if you'd let me think about it I could alter our style, make it work for them. But you're always, like, on to the next piece...maybe you should just go away and leave me alone! Maybe I can write better without you!”

“No. No. Think about it,” urged Herman. “You can't leave behind who you are to suit anybody else. If the stuff doesn't get read now, it will be read later. Maybe much later.”

“But you aren't who I am,” cried Ben. “You're somebody else entirely!”

“Hahahaa, that's ridiculous,” laughed Herman. “It's rich. You're sitting here talking to yourself, and denying that you are you. I'm what's inside, and it's what's inside that matters. Especially to a writer! Now think about it!”“Have I ever let us down? How far have you come because of me? I will bring us through this. As always, I will carry you kicking and screaming, and in the end, you'll thank me. You were looking for a way to change your life. All the ways you wish you could be...that's me. I look like you wanna look, I fuh” … “Oh hell, never mind. I guess the Fight Club monologue isn't applicable straight across the board.” Herman paused. “Do what you want.”

Ben was alone again, seated before his computer. You had to give it to him. Send this, and there would be no point in sending anything else. Then he could concentrate on other venues.

He took a long look at the computer screen, and pressed “send”.

*******************************