Context and Ducks
A Microstory
I was cycling the kids to school the other day, and as we were passing along the local hospital, I witnessed the scene that inspired this microstory.
A duck—a large, male one—leaps across the road in a frenzy. Brakes screech and horns blare. Mr. Duck makes it to the hospital on the other side, leaps to the ledge of a low window, and begins to hammer the glass with his beak, startling the nurses inside.
How do you feel about this story? I bet you are not interested. Where to begin? The most important stuff is obviously missing. Where are the aliens, the laser blasts, all the good stuff? At most you might feel mildly curious about Mr. Duck.
A nurse approaches the window—“What do you have, little guy?”—and puts her hand against the glass, but the gesture only appears to accelerate Mr. Duck’s beak rampage.
That’s the question, right? What’s up with him? Well, I will not tell you. I will not even show you (as good authors are meant to). No, I’m going to do something else. I am merely going to provide context.
Context?
Yes, context. Sounds boring, right? That will not make this microstory any better! Well, Professor Miyagi would very much disagree with you. As he likes to tell his students, “context is everything in history.” And, yeah, he’s so right. So let’s get on with it.
I have passed next to Mr. and Mrs. Duck often on my daily commute. It was a great—a wonderful—surprise to find eight eager ducklings running behind them as spring raised her neck. They went everywhere together, like they owned the hospital grounds, making the delights of children and adults alike. And when they rested, Mr. Duck would stand proud and vigilant—a defiant gaze meeting every passing biker—while the rest of the family slept with untroubled serenity on the bike path next to the water.
One day, a screeching car seeking the urgency wing dashed across the bike lane, missing Mr. Duck by a hair’s breadth.
There you have it, “context at its best”, as Miyagi would say. You can go ahead and start reading the microstory from the beginning, and see how context alone can dramatically transform the reading experience.
Oh, and I’m sorry about the lack of aliens and so on. I think the story wouldn’t have been quite the same with them in the picture, or with laser blasts :D.
Ah, before I forget. This microstory was fiction, just food for the brain. It never happened. Truth is the ducklings are real, and still there, growing quickly and still owning the hospital grounds under the vigilant eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Duck. There you have a real-world happy end.
As usual, feel free to comment with your thoughts. And in that note, I would like to share the thoughts of a reader, Scott W., that sent me his very unique perspective to last month’s microstory (about the worth of a life). He granted me permission to share it with you, so here it is:
I've thought about the two deathbed scenarios you presented because I have experienced them. I've pondered but have no answers. I worked for a funeral home for 5 years doing removals ("taking your loved one, father, etc., into our care). Alone in a hospital room or a nursing facility room was common with family only occasionally present. Sometimes that got me a little. I rarely knew the circumstances. One time, though, the great grandmother was in a hospital bed in the living room with 15 people of all ages in attendance. Another time I was bringing a lady down from the second floor of an assisted living facility, a large step up from a nursing home. I was momentarily horrified when I saw about 20 people outside the elevator. I preferred to transport my people discreetly. The crowd each had a purple rose which they placed on top of my cover over the lady. Deeply moving. I don't know if that was their traditional goodbye or if the lady was just greatly loved. Sometimes the family present could not bear to be in the room. I was either alone or with a caregiver (a newly out-of-work caregiver, another issue to ponder). Sometimes, though, the family wanted to be right there, helping me even, or hugging and kissing their loved one (always an adult female child).
— Scott W. (6th June 2021)
If you’re reading this blog, I thank you, Scott. Wonderful—deeply human—experiences, and very thought provoking about, perhaps paradoxically, the nature of a well-lived life.
What am I reading?
I am ashamed to confess that I am still reading—a month after!—“The Carpet Makers” by Andreas Eschbach. I have a good excuse, though. In a genuine display of utter nerdiness, I bought the fifth edition of Dungeons and Dragons (there are five already! I played in my youth the first edition) and had to do some urgent reading to play with my family.
What are YOU reading?
Chris M. is reading through the “First Contact” series of Peter Cawdron. Mac (he just wrote me this same morning) is reading “Pandora’s Star” from Peter Hamilton (I read that series a while ago myself).
Andrus loved the Chris Wright's Survival trilogy: "Survival", "Fragments" and "I Am Auton".
Edo loves all Terry Pratchet, which is not SciFi, but Fantasy—but hey, nobody is perfect, right? ;)
Feel free to comment with your current/recent readings, but ONLY if you are really enjoying it, please! I want to share only decent recommendations.
What am I working on?
The toughest chapters of “The Second Wake” (Episode IV of Dreamworms) are already behind me. It was a lot of new material, but I think from now on I will progress with the revision of the rest of the book much quicker (cross fingers).
Here a teaser paragraph from one of the last chapters I worked on, late in Episode IV, called, “The Mad Hatter” (unedited, so remain tolerant of typos, etc):
And yet, as Ximena inspects Edda’s body, she quickly realizes that there’s something worse going on. Worse than wounds, no matter how nasty. There is something there, in Edda’s expression. Or rather, there is something missing . Like… this is not Edda anymore. Not the Edda she already knows so intimately. This is a broken carcass, a body without a brain, shattered by horror, by fear of death. No, not fear. Fear is a word Ximena can still comprehend. Fear is intimate, painful, an emotion that she tries to avoid, and, occasionally, face. But she knows, by staring into Edda’s eyes, that whatever Edda might be feeling now, she herself has never felt before. What does a rabbit feel in the jaws of a wolf? And what when the mauling jaws begin to shut? Ximena takes a deep breath. She is so glad that the psych-link is off!
That’s all I have for you today. Happy out-of-this-world reading!
—Isaac, logging out
https://isaacpetrov.com/sign-up/
I was cycling the kids to school the other day, and as we were passing along the local hospital, I witnessed the scene that inspired this microstory.
A duck—a large, male one—leaps across the road in a frenzy. Brakes screech and horns blare. Mr. Duck makes it to the hospital on the other side, leaps to the ledge of a low window, and begins to hammer the glass with his beak, startling the nurses inside.
How do you feel about this story? I bet you are not interested. Where to begin? The most important stuff is obviously missing. Where are the aliens, the laser blasts, all the good stuff? At most you might feel mildly curious about Mr. Duck.
A nurse approaches the window—“What do you have, little guy?”—and puts her hand against the glass, but the gesture only appears to accelerate Mr. Duck’s beak rampage.
That’s the question, right? What’s up with him? Well, I will not tell you. I will not even show you (as good authors are meant to). No, I’m going to do something else. I am merely going to provide context.
Context?
Yes, context. Sounds boring, right? That will not make this microstory any better! Well, Professor Miyagi would very much disagree with you. As he likes to tell his students, “context is everything in history.” And, yeah, he’s so right. So let’s get on with it.
I have passed next to Mr. and Mrs. Duck often on my daily commute. It was a great—a wonderful—surprise to find eight eager ducklings running behind them as spring raised her neck. They went everywhere together, like they owned the hospital grounds, making the delights of children and adults alike. And when they rested, Mr. Duck would stand proud and vigilant—a defiant gaze meeting every passing biker—while the rest of the family slept with untroubled serenity on the bike path next to the water.
One day, a screeching car seeking the urgency wing dashed across the bike lane, missing Mr. Duck by a hair’s breadth.
There you have it, “context at its best”, as Miyagi would say. You can go ahead and start reading the microstory from the beginning, and see how context alone can dramatically transform the reading experience.
Oh, and I’m sorry about the lack of aliens and so on. I think the story wouldn’t have been quite the same with them in the picture, or with laser blasts :D.
Ah, before I forget. This microstory was fiction, just food for the brain. It never happened. Truth is the ducklings are real, and still there, growing quickly and still owning the hospital grounds under the vigilant eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Duck. There you have a real-world happy end.
As usual, feel free to comment with your thoughts. And in that note, I would like to share the thoughts of a reader, Scott W., that sent me his very unique perspective to last month’s microstory (about the worth of a life). He granted me permission to share it with you, so here it is:
I've thought about the two deathbed scenarios you presented because I have experienced them. I've pondered but have no answers. I worked for a funeral home for 5 years doing removals ("taking your loved one, father, etc., into our care). Alone in a hospital room or a nursing facility room was common with family only occasionally present. Sometimes that got me a little. I rarely knew the circumstances. One time, though, the great grandmother was in a hospital bed in the living room with 15 people of all ages in attendance. Another time I was bringing a lady down from the second floor of an assisted living facility, a large step up from a nursing home. I was momentarily horrified when I saw about 20 people outside the elevator. I preferred to transport my people discreetly. The crowd each had a purple rose which they placed on top of my cover over the lady. Deeply moving. I don't know if that was their traditional goodbye or if the lady was just greatly loved. Sometimes the family present could not bear to be in the room. I was either alone or with a caregiver (a newly out-of-work caregiver, another issue to ponder). Sometimes, though, the family wanted to be right there, helping me even, or hugging and kissing their loved one (always an adult female child).
— Scott W. (6th June 2021)
If you’re reading this blog, I thank you, Scott. Wonderful—deeply human—experiences, and very thought provoking about, perhaps paradoxically, the nature of a well-lived life.
What am I reading?
I am ashamed to confess that I am still reading—a month after!—“The Carpet Makers” by Andreas Eschbach. I have a good excuse, though. In a genuine display of utter nerdiness, I bought the fifth edition of Dungeons and Dragons (there are five already! I played in my youth the first edition) and had to do some urgent reading to play with my family.
What are YOU reading?
Chris M. is reading through the “First Contact” series of Peter Cawdron. Mac (he just wrote me this same morning) is reading “Pandora’s Star” from Peter Hamilton (I read that series a while ago myself).
Andrus loved the Chris Wright's Survival trilogy: "Survival", "Fragments" and "I Am Auton".
Edo loves all Terry Pratchet, which is not SciFi, but Fantasy—but hey, nobody is perfect, right? ;)
Feel free to comment with your current/recent readings, but ONLY if you are really enjoying it, please! I want to share only decent recommendations.
What am I working on?
The toughest chapters of “The Second Wake” (Episode IV of Dreamworms) are already behind me. It was a lot of new material, but I think from now on I will progress with the revision of the rest of the book much quicker (cross fingers).
Here a teaser paragraph from one of the last chapters I worked on, late in Episode IV, called, “The Mad Hatter” (unedited, so remain tolerant of typos, etc):
And yet, as Ximena inspects Edda’s body, she quickly realizes that there’s something worse going on. Worse than wounds, no matter how nasty. There is something there, in Edda’s expression. Or rather, there is something missing . Like… this is not Edda anymore. Not the Edda she already knows so intimately. This is a broken carcass, a body without a brain, shattered by horror, by fear of death. No, not fear. Fear is a word Ximena can still comprehend. Fear is intimate, painful, an emotion that she tries to avoid, and, occasionally, face. But she knows, by staring into Edda’s eyes, that whatever Edda might be feeling now, she herself has never felt before. What does a rabbit feel in the jaws of a wolf? And what when the mauling jaws begin to shut? Ximena takes a deep breath. She is so glad that the psych-link is off!
That’s all I have for you today. Happy out-of-this-world reading!
—Isaac, logging out
https://isaacpetrov.com/sign-up/
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