Tuesday’s Tale#1 (cont’d)

Practice means to perform, over and over again in the face of all obstacles,
some act of vision, of faith, of desire.
Practice is a means of inviting the perfection desired.”
Martha Graham (1894 – 1991)

This is the second version of the Tuesday’s Tale, and for having had my second sitting in the writing group I now belong to, I better understand what is NOT working with this story.

  • Does it grab you by the throat? No
  • Do I know what is the character’s motivation? Tweaking needed

As promised yesterday here it is, however I would totally understand if you stopped reading right now 😉


What was this sign doing in the middle of the pond? Dorothy the duck,thought to herself looking at it. In a matter of minutes, the whole group of senior ducks had been alerted, it had appeared the night before but nobody knew who’d placed it there.  The cacophony of sounds coming from every direction was so loud, that even the birds nesting on the tree nearby were wondering what was going on.


Up until then, this day had been quite uneventful, a cold and windy Spring morning and the pond, home to this flock of ducks, was busy with everyone’s preparation for the arrival of the season.  The bare forsythia branches had now adorned their new spring colours and the warmth of its yellow flowers was such a welcomed sight.


The group was calmer now, still whispering amongst each other about last night’s event but going on with their activities. The wind was cold and the clouds were low but it did not matter, everyone knew Spring had arrived and nest were being carefully built, so eggs could be laid and the pairs of ducks were taking turns making sure the unborn ducklings got all the warmth they needed.
Dorothy Duck was getting herself ready for a swim, she was still too young to be paired up but could not help looking at Oscar Drake’s expert contortion while he was cleaning his side chest feathers.



He was so graceful carefully twisting his neck both sideways and backwards in order to reach the tiny bits of green algae, an earlier swim in the muckier part of the pond, had left on his shiny feathers.  She reluctantly took her gaze away and wobbled slowly towards the pond.  

She was a beautiful brown duck and the fine white feathers on her chest were a sure sign that she belonged to one of the migrating group of ducks traveling on towards their Winter breeding grounds, down south.  Her parents had decided to stop for a rest and never left again. Usually she would be bothered by the looks the other ducks would give her but today the air was full intrigue and she wanted to see once more this curious object.
Solving this mystery might be the key to being accepted by her flock, it was worth a try.

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