Ducky
by Kyle Hemmings
Its flying saucer
crashed in the backyard and vaporated into a
green blob in the shape of a shrine with a
mushroom head. I took It in and tried
giving It a home. After all, the both of
us, in some sense, were stranded. It on
this planet, and me, in my self-exile on a small
square of earth called Apartment 224c. This is
what I assumed. Since I've been alone since
"she" left, I assumed It and I
were two similar peas from different pods.
Each day after work, It
would be waiting for me, playing with the tv
remote, sitting on the couch with Its
revolving glass oval head, refractive metal body
box, the spindly legs and arms. Its hands
were very white, as if wearing ladies' gloves.
Sometimes, It, perhaps out of boredom,
would try playing this game with me. It''d
make a series of blips and half-way intelligible
sounds in Its characteristically squeaky
tone. I had to try to guess what It was
saying. "Duck?" I responded. Its
head spun faster. "Duck soup," I said.
"You want duck soup for dinner? Is that what
you want?" It made two blips, a
pause, and a jazz dash. "Duck it?" I
said. "You want to play a game of ducking it.
Like ducking a ball thrown at you. As in dodge
ball." Its head spun in an opposite
direction. It made four Pascalian Blips,
one amazingly long Mach 6 pause, and five
concerted huffs in E flat. It attempted
the sound again. I leaned forward from the
recliner. "Oh, Ducky Doo," I said. That
old farmer's song from the North. "Ducky Doo,
Ducky Dee, Lucky you, Lucky me, A girl who fell
from the sweetest tree." In an act of what I
interpreted as self-destruction, It began
to rip out some inner cords connecting Its
gruffti to the armentium.
"Wait," I
shouted. I then strapped on the Delanium III
Deuce Decoder, reserved for special occasions, as
its energy consumption was high. After turning
the knob to "max," I then realized what
It was trying to tell me. Ducky was the
name of my ex, whom I dumped in a fit of jealousy
and despair. It wanted to know if Ducky
was still available. One thing about It. It
knows me like a book. It can see through
my hunger-denial synergy snaps and my raw
Appolinian M traces. It loves to stay up
all night, the little balls of Its
antennae flashing green like a cheap nightlight,
as It browses my old photo albums or
complains in indigenous Hex code that I fart too
loudly. It's just a difference in planets, I
suppose. Later, It and I went driving, me
at the wheel, It doing the Ganglionic
Waffle Bug to a techno beat, as we'd drive all
night if need be, looking for Ducky.
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