The Odd Duck

Sally’s long lashes flickered at Jimmy. She had such beautiful fur, deep and luxuriant, and Jimmy often leaned against her stomach listening to the soft rumble of her breathing while he composed. Poetry, of course, love sonnets and deeply purple prose describing her lovely mouth, gorgeous tail, and luxuriant paws.

Of course, Momma duck would not approve. Jimmy didn’t care. Sally was his muse, his daydream, the reason for his writing.

One day, while waddling down to the pond for his morning swim, Jimmy discovered a scene of carnage. Crushed cattails and prints in the shore side mud, both webbed and clawed. Bloody gobbets of flesh and drifting white feathers were all that remained of Momma duck and Jimmy’s duckling siblings.

A pair of feral red eyes started intently at Jimmy. Her beautiful needle teeth, dripping blood down the slick fur of her perfect chin.

“Time to choose, Jimmy,” purred the enchanting weasel.

Jimmy leapt astride his vintage motorcycle, flicked a cigarette butt into the pond, and offered Sally a lift.

“I’m perfectly willing to think outside the flockses.¹”

—

¹ Spelling intentional, Jimmy’s response to pedants: “[Expletive deleted].²”
² (Which the editor translates with some liberty: “Up yours.”)

198 words, inspired by the week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt:

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