An Owl, A Duck And A Room With No Door
by Grant Hettrick
The room doesn’t have a door. It does have red and white striped walls. And there’s a three-foot walking, talking rubber duck with smoker’s cough and one pompous owl sharing a joint with me. But no door? What if there’s a fire? It’s enough to make me want to put out the skinny cigarette.
“Yo, quit bogarting, dude,” The duck says and grabs the joint from my hand. “You know this stuff will shrivel your acorns.”
“Hey, owl, what if there’s a fire?” I ask.
“Stop, drop and roll, baby,” the duck answers.
“No, I mean, how do we get out.”
The owl hoots and smoke billows in my face. “Out? Why do you want to get out so badly?”
“Well, I don’t want to burn to death.”
“Talk about shriveling your acorns,” the duck says.
“Why are you so worried about a fire?” The owl rests her wing across the ducks back.
“What the hell does ‘per se’ mean?” the duck asks.
“Duck! Watch the language.” The owl pecks the duck on the head and then pecks me harder. “Be careful when you flee a burning house that you don’t run into traffic and get hit by a bus.” The owl crosses her wings and tilts her head toward the ceiling.
“And what the hell does that mean?” the duck squawks.
“Duck! Language!” The owl pecks the duck and I cover my head with my arms. The owl waits, with an amused expression, until I remove my arms. She promptly pecks me twice.
“Two for flinching,” the duck says.
I rub my throbbing head. “You mean to tell me you never worry about being trapped in a burning room with no doors?”
The owl leans closer. “If you worry about the forest fires of tomorrow, you’ll never make the campfires of today and then how will you roast those delicious marshmallows?”
“What crap,” the duck says. “I need another toke.” The joint is no longer lit and he reaches for the matches.
“Duck! Language!” The owl leans to peck the duck, but knocks the now burning match to the floor. The carpet, aided by some feather kindling, goes up in a whoosh of flames.
“Fire! Fire!” the owl yells.
“Save the weed!” the duck yells.
I stop, drop and roll. The flames corner me, crackling and hissing as I cower against one of the red stripes on the wall. This would be a perfect place for a door, I think. Owl and Duck fly for the safety of the skylight. I ponder how much easier it was to enter a room with no doors than it is to escape.
Grant finds John Carpenter's *Halloween* superior to Rob Zombie's contemporary update even while appreciating the latter's contributions exploring Michael Meyer's past. Check out some of his stuff in Ruthless Peoples Magazine, Toasted Cheese and Boston Literary Magazine.
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