Ugly Duckling

The sun sets, the river flows. Nearby, a flock of ducks paddled, a small one left behind. This tranquil setting is bathed with an evanescent glow. You can feel it, but you can't touch it.

You just know it's there.

The year is 1999. I am standing in someone's back garden. Someone that I had only just met, and yet had offered me a lifeline. An act of generosity that would shape me, redefine me, and reconstruct me into the person that I am now. It was not without strings. I would have to make sacrifices that I never thought I would have to at that age.

I would have to stop being me. And in doing so, I allowed myself to grow.

I allowed myself to be me.

But at that time I pondered. I was unsure of the path that lies ahead, and even less sure of how to walk it.

The duckling remains, its pack paddling away. It tries vainly to follow them, their trail mapped by the rippled waves left behind. The duckling is not the prettiest of the lot, its whiteness tarred by wet dirt on its side. Maybe someday, this duckling will become beautiful and fly, I thought to myself, as it paddles its way towards its flock.

I smiled.

This duckling will fly.


KL said…
WooW Fikri, I'm alwasy amazed whenever I visit your blog. How can write such touching and moving anecdotes? I don't kwow what you are upto now, but you should seriously consider to becoming an author, in the line of Ernest Hemingway.
Fikri said…
To KL: Thanks very much. That is arguably the greatest compliment I've received about my writing. Hemingway I am not, though. Mostly inspired by Matthew Stover, a sci-fi writer.

To Senior Thinking: Well, it's actually an idea I had for your writing competition, but I just never got round to it. This is a version of it, if you like :>