The Duck

Flash Fiction - story in under 1,000 words

I didn’t go deer hunting with my brother and my dad, because I felt sorry for the deer. If I saw a deer in the woods I would be more likely to take a picture then to shoot it. With hunting, one minute there was a beautiful animal walking through the forest, and the next it was laying on the ground with a bloody hole blown in its side. Soon after that, its bloody carcass hung upside down in our garage. And not long after that, its head was mounted on an open portion of the wall of our family cabin. I found the whole thing sad and repulsive.

My dad knew how I felt. That’s what made it strange that one day, in the fall of my seventh grade year, he told me he was taking me duck hunting that weekend. He clearly saw it as a father-son bonding experience. He seemed enthusiastic about it, and I didn’t know how to say no.

That’s how I found myself following my dad out the back door of our cabin at sunrise. The sunlight glinted off the lake ahead of us, and there was a crisp fall wind as we crossed the back yard. My dad was wearing dark green pants, a flannel shirt, and work boots. He had a hunting knife in a sheath attached to his belt. He carried a shotgun by his side. I wore jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, along with tennis shoes. I put the hood up on my sweatshirt to keep my face warm.

We entered the woods at the other side of the yard, walking on a foot trail going through the trees. From the trail you couldn’t see the lake, but it followed the shoreline. After about ten minutes we came out at the end of the lake. In front of us lay an area with high weeds and muddy but firm ground. We walked through the weeds, and they brushed against our thighs. The duck blind came into sight. Two logs were sitting  on their ends inside a circle of fencing made with wooden slats and wire. A few yards away a rowboat was pulled up on the mud, an outboard motor tilted up out of the water.

We sat down on the logs and my dad lay the shotgun across his lap. I didn’t understand what the fencing was for, since the ducks would be flying above us and could see us clearly. We sat quietly and looked out over the lake as the sun rose on the other side. We waited. I didn’t understand the appeal of duck hunting – sitting on stumps in the cold without saying a word for over an hour. But as it turns out, we were in  luck.

Some ducks flying in formation came out from behind us and flew across the lake toward the sun. My dad raised his shotgun and followed the ducks with the barrel. They were about halfway across the lake when a shot exploded in my ears. Simultaneously, one of the ducks dropped out of the group and plummeted toward the water. “Got ya,” my dad said. He lowered the gun and clapped me on the shoulder with his free hand. I felt something drop in my stomach along with the duck. I thought about going out in the rowboat to retrieve the dead duck and I felt sad. My dad had just killed it for no reason. For fun. I did not think it was fun. I understood then that I should have told him I didn’t want to go when he first told me. I should have said no.

In one hand my dad carried the duck by its legs, in the other he carried his gun. When we reached the back of the cabin, he tossed the duck onto the deck and lay down his gun alongside. He slid the hunting knife from its sheath on his belt.

“We’re going to clean this the same way you do when you clean a fish,” he said.

But I didn’t mind cleaning fish. They had vacant eyes. They didn’t have legs or feathers. They weren’t beautiful like the duck was beautiful. My dad stabbed the knife into the duck near its neck, and cut a line down across its stomach toward the tail. He took out the knife and tossed it by the gun.

“Come here,” he said. “Reach in there and get a good handful.”

I stepped over in front of the duck. My hands were shaking, but I forced myself to stick one of them through the crease my dad had created. As my hand went inside, I felt the warmth and slime of the duck’s guts envelop it.  Tears were streaming down my face. I didn’t know if my dad could see that or not. I pulled out a handful of the duck’s insides and plopped them on the deck. My crying turned into a sob.

“Go ahead, keep going,” my dad said.

I sputtered out my words: “I can’t do this, I don’t want to do this, don’t make me do this.” My dad looked shocked. He reached out and touched me on the shoulder.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “Why don’t you go inside and clean up and I’ll finish up here.”  

I stepped up onto the deck and entered the cabin through the back door. I washed my hands in the sink until the slimy feeling left my hand. If my brother had been there, he would have called me a pussy. If my mother had been there, she would have said I was too sensitive, and I needed to toughen up. My dad just let it go, and for that I was immensely grateful. After washing my hands, I crawled back into bed. I closed my eyes, trying to transport myself back before the dawn.