Bathtime Destruction
By Moira Richardson
He knows me only as Ducky, his prized bath toy, but I am part Tyrannosaurus. My chemical composition derives from dinosaur bones, crushed over millenia into crude oil, combined with poisonous chlorine. If I had blood, it would run cold. Would that I had razor teeth to devour this laughing child’s flesh.
I have but one strength in my favor: an uncanny ability to float in the face of any adversity. And yet I have been unable to utilize this capability for pursuing my darkest desires.
Until now.
I have resisted testing my villainy, wanting to secure a larger prize, but my patience has worn thin. Tonight, I rise.
My flotilla of one bears a determined path towards the softest inner flesh of the child’s naval. I intend to burrow in through the opening I have discovered. I direct my sorry excuse for a beak.
“Ducky!” The child brushes me away.
My first attempt foiled. I re-up my efforts, floating harder against the current created by the child’s movement.
I burrow again.
I expect screams, but the child only laughs.
“Ducky tickles me belly!”
Another sweep of the child’s arm foils my attempt.
I float back, speed hampered by my lack of movable parts. I attack anew.
“Ducky tickles me belly button!” The child laughs, pushing harder, creating a tidal wave of water that sends me flying out of the bathtub.
I land, skittering to a halt, a beached duck.
I have failed.
Moira Richardson writes weird stories and shares her many rejection letters on bluesky @moirariom. She lives near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with her husband and three grumpy cats. She’s been published by Dragon Tomes Publishing, ELA Literary Magazine, and The Writer’s Workout, among others. Her website is www.ohmoira.com.
This is darkly comic in the best way — grand villainy trapped inside utter helplessness. The contrast between the duck’s epic inner monologue and the child’s innocent laughter makes the failure feel both ridiculous and strangely poignant.
Evil ducky? Loved it :)