A MOMMY DUCK AND A DADDY DUCK

Experimental Fiction, Nicolas Muszynski

Nicolas Muszynski Language Arts

April 5, 2009                     Ms. Avila

There is Mommy Duck, Daddy Duck, and me. 

I am a seven year old duckling. I swim in a blue lake. I like swimming because Daddy Duck likes to swim too. We swim in big big circles. We swim around big boats, big fish, and big fishermen. Daddy Duck is big and strong. Daddy Duck tells me I will be big and strong too. Daddy Duck calls me big guy. I like it when he calls me that.

Mommy Duck likes to read. Before I go to sleep Mommy Duck reads me a story. Mommy Duck does funny voices that make me laugh. Big voices, small voices, loud voices, and quiet voices. I like to do them too. I can not sleep when Mommy Duck does not read to me. Mommy Duck does not read to me some nights. I miss the stories.

One day in our big blue lake Mommy Duck and Daddy Duck quack all day. They quack loud and the quacking hurts my ears. When the quacking stops I swim to them, but only Mommy Duck is there. Mommy Duck says that Daddy Duck is leaving our lake for a while. Mommy Duck swims away too. Mommy Duck leaves our lake but tells me she will be back. I do not sleep that night, because Mommy Duck does not read to me.

In the morning I hear quacking. Loud but happy quacking. I swim to the quacking and see Mommy Duck and Daddy Duck smiling. We all hug and Daddy Duck makes breakfast. The End.

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Nicolas Muszynski Biology

October 10, 2013         Mrs. Davis

Essay Topic: Ducks

Ducks are everywhere, everyone has seen one before. But many people do not know much about these animals they have seen all their lives. How do they float? What do they do with each other? These are some of the questions people ask about ducks. This essay will explain the biology of ducks, their habitat, and their social lives. 

[...] Female ducks sit on their eggs for 28 days before they hatch. During this male ducks are away with other male ducks. When ducklings hatch they do something called imprinting where they follow the first moving object they see which is most of the time their mother. A duckling’s feathers are not waterproof so they need their mother for warmth and protection. Ducklings can find food hours after hatching and can fly after only 5 weeks (Spencer 4).

[...] Ducks do something called seasonal monogamy. This means that during mating season, ducks have only one partner. But those relationships only last for that season and end after the eggs are laid. And during the next mating season ducks look for different partners (Carter 1). 

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Nicolas Muszynski

Mr. Hughes

Poetry Unit

December 2, 2015

A Lone Floating Duck

a once sapphire lake, clear

as diamond, now gray like ash

a lone duck in a capacious lake.

Floating.

confined by broken bottles

the stench stings sharp of sour sulfur,

it dreams of shards cutting neck and

Ending. 

the duck waits, waits, waits, waits

for something to return and nothing to return

it wants yet it does not.

Drowning.

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Nicolas Muszynski

Mrs. Barnes

Creative Writing

9 March 2020

Hunting for Duck

Nicholas rubbed the crust from his eyes and flicked it into the shit-colored lake. What a disgrace to God’s green Earth. Cans of Bud Light, empty Marlboro cartons, vomit, piss, shit, blood. He would’ve had better luck hunting for some guy's cum-crusted boxers than duck. 

Hunting for duck on his birthday was tradition. A blood ritual inherited from his father, who first took him hunting when he was ten. The perfect age for a son to grow into the true-blooded American killer that all fathers dream of. 

During their first hunt, his father said, “Look here, Big Guy, this here’s a hunting rifle. One fucking nice hunting rifle, if I might say so myself.” Nicholas, wide-eyed and itching at mosquito bites, saw the same rifle that had been propped above the fireplace. For ten years it was just out of reach. He had imagined himself, like the action heroes he revered, pulling the trigger and blasting a villain’s brains all over the wall. Like shooting a cherry slushie.

“It's probably too heavy for you right now, but when you look like me,” his father flexed, “it’s nothing, Big Guy.” The ‘when’ gave him hope. That one day he’d say goodbye to useless scrawny flesh and become what all men must. A thick chunk of muscle attached to a yardstick dick. 

His father ran him through the motions. Don’t look down the barrel. Don’t shoot your own damn foot. Don’t assume it’s unloaded, that’s how you blast your own dick off. Don’t point it at someone, unless they’re asking for it, then you should try to at least enjoy it. Don’t point it at your mother, unless she’s acting like a bitch again. His father laughed after that one. Nicholas didn’t.

A duck floated by and his father raised the rifle to his eye and shot. Nicholas felt his little heart burst. The sound alone was enough to kill. Why waste money on metal and lead? Let the target overdose on adrenaline and watch as their heart gives up.

If he looked to the left, he would’ve seen the carcass. Just meat and bone. Stuff found at the store, graded on tenderness and flavor. Sold for five bucks at Costco or ten at the local butcher’s market. Then passed around the Thanksgiving table. To the uncle that beat his ex-wife, to the grandmother who screamed slurs at the news anchors, to the infant who shat their diaper, and to the infant's parents who were already four beers and two joints deep. 

But he couldn’t look away from his father. How his teeth glistened in the sunlight. How those blue eyes didn’t waver at the duck’s exposed stomach. His father said, “See, not that hard. Here, Big Guy.” And handed the rifle to his ten-year-old son. 

Twenty years later, Nicholas pointed that same rifle at two ducks and one duckling. They swam in shit and their feathers showed it. Caked in brown and with patches of exposed skin. Nicholas remembered the lake years before, big, blue, and crystal. The ducks used to have the feathers of angels. Peaceful creatures protected under God’s grace no doubt. Maybe that grace had run out. Or maybe the lake always looked like this, and he was too young to notice.

The duckling bounced between the two ducks. Father and mother no doubt. It never dared to drift farther than an inch from either parent. 

Nicholas stared down the barrel. Right at the ducks. At this snapshot of life. A fragile duckling, dependent and naive. Unaware that in the next few weeks it’ll have to hunt its own food. That it’ll have to fly away. And that come next mating season, its parents will find new mates. 

Holding his breath, he waited for the right moment. When the father and mother ducks lined themselves up, he shot. The two carcasses floated in their own blood as it mixed into the piss and vomit. The duckling flailed its legs until it reached land. Out of the lake and out of vision. Forced to grow up and hunt. 

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Nicolas Muszynski

9/13/21

CW 100

Personal Narrative

draft

One night, when I was six, that iPhone outgoing call sound kept me up. It was harsh, mechanical, and felt like it was all around me. My mother had been making calls all night, and not one had been answered. It was two in the morning. I knew what was happening, it had happened plenty of times before. My father was gone all day and all night, supposedly at work. My mother didn’t believe it.

That night, my mother came into my room. Her speech was slurred and her face was red as she told me to go to the car. She was loud, and when I didn’t get up she got louder, redder. My bedsheets were torn away and, before I knew it, she tossed me over her shoulder and carried me into the backseat. 

The harsh turns, the constant swerves, and the high pressure made my stomach churn. Car sickness had always been an issue for me, but this was the worst. I asked to turn around, to go back home. But my mother tossed me a plastic bag and said I should puke in it if I had to. So I did.

I didn’t feel better. The car sickness didn’t go away even when we parked at my father’s workplace. It still felt like the car was barreling down the road. Like it would never stop.

My mother, lit by the car’s headlights, banged on the front door. After some time, my father came out. I couldn’t understand what they said, but I heard the muffled yells. Felt the bass and the anger.

My father pointed at me as I sat in the backseat. Then he snatched my mother’s phone and cracked it against the asphalt. I missed what happened next as I buried my face in my hands. All I knew was that I heard banging against the car window and that their voices were closer. When I looked, I saw my father’s palm pressed to the window. Cut up and bloodied. I heard him yell through the glass,  “Look what she did to me!” 

I didn’t know what

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Nicolas Muszynski

10/2/22

THEA 211

A Play About Ducks

The scene opens on a small, undecorated apartment. There is a table in the center. Boxes filled with various objects are scattered across the floor. To the right, there is a separate unlit scene with a single school desk in the dark. In the apartment, MAN is unpacking. He pauses when he sees a single creased sheet of notebook paper. He slowly takes it out. Then he sits on the table and quickly reads it over. Once finished, he looks up at the audience.

MAN: What? Want me to read this to you? Ah, I don’t think so. Nothing personal, there’s just no point in it. It’s a little story about ducks. (Reminiscing) I must’ve written it when I was, God, must’ve been in first grade. 

A spotlight now shines on the desk. BOY enters and drops his backpack to the side. He then sits at the desk.  BOY looks down and picks at his nails. His expression is blank.

MAN: The teacher had told us to write anything. And I liked ducks, still do. They’re endearing little guys floating around, minding their own business. Anyway, since I liked ducks, I wrote about ducks. Just a little story about ducks swimming in a lake.

TEACHER enters and walks towards BOY. She is holding a sheet of notebook paper, this one without any creases. 

MAN: But, my teacher wanted to talk about it.

TEACHER stops next to BOY.

TEACHER: Do you remember that story you wrote on Monday?

BOY does not look up at TEACHER. He nods. 

TEACHER: Would you like to talk about it?

BOY does not respond.

TEACHER: Would it be easier if we were at my desk? Or maybe later during recess?

Again BOY does not respond. TEACHER kneels next to the desk, getting on BOY’s level.

TEACHER: I just want to let you know that you can talk to me whenever.

BOY: (Quietly) About what?

TEACHER: Anything you need to.

MAN: I told myself I didn’t need to talk about anything. I wanted to tell her to…

BOY: Shut up and go away.

MAN: But I didn’t. I actually told my teacher…

BOY: Okay.

MAN: Not because I meant it, but because I knew that would make her go away quicker.

TEACHER places the notebook paper on the desk. BOY looks at it for a moment before shifting his gaze to the floor. TEACHER notices this. 

TEACHER: You’re not in trouble if that’s what you think. You did really good on this, you’re a great writer.

MAN: Hmph. What a load of—(Stops himself) I don’t know. If I wasn’t a little brat, I would’ve said…

BOY: Thank you.

MAN: But I actually said…

BOY remains silent.

MAN: Yeah, nothing. 

TEACHER: I wanted to ask you how things are at home?

BOY: Why?

MAN: Yeah, why? You just read a story about ducks and now you want to psychoanalyze me? 

TEACHER: Is everything okay? 

BOY: Yes.

TEACHER: Are you telling the truth? You know you can talk to me.

BOY: I am.

MAN: And now she doesn’t even trust me. Why ask questions when you won’t even listen? Is it because I was a kid? That I couldn’t be trusted?

TEACHER: Are you sure? Because this story is saying something different. 

MAN: Oh what? (Stands) The story about ducks? It’s just about ducks. That’s it. There’s nothing more to it. Why the Hell do you feel the need to read into every little thing I do? Why can’t I just be? (Paces across the room) No, I can’t just be. Everything I say, everything I do, everything I write, it needs to be something more. A window into my mind, a proof of trauma, a case study on psychology. Why can’t I write a story about ducks and have it just be about ducks? Why does everything need to remind me of my life? Who gave YOU the right to tell ME what MY story is saying? I say it’s about ducks, so it’s about ducks.

MAN leans on the table, breathless. After a few moments of silence, the TEACHER stands.

TEACHER: Whenever you’re ready to talk, I’ll listen.

TEACHER exits.

BOY: (Under his breath) Fuck you.

MAN: She didn’t deserve that. (Pause) I don’t know where that came from. Maybe she had a point. I mean, there’s a reason I kept that story.

MAN and BOY pick up their respective sheets of notebook paper at the same time. 

MAN: I could have tossed it out, ripped it to shreds, burned it to ash. But here it is, for me to read. 

BOY puts the paper into his backpack. He exits with his backpack. The light on the desk goes down.

MAN: A direct line from my past to my present. Proof of who I was and what I wrote. Not a story about ducks, a story about myself. (Pause) I think—I think I’m ready to talk. 

Lights fade out as MAN sits on the table and reads over the notebook paper again. 

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Nicolas Muszynski

3/20/23

CW 204

You Aren’t a Duckling

There has always been Mommy Duck, Daddy Duck, and you. 

You aren’t a duckling. Your parents aren’t ducks. But some time ago you watched a family of ducks float by. They glided across the water as if it were nothing. They moved through life so easily. You looked to your mother and then to your father as they sat on either side. The three of you sat on the grass and watched the silent lake in a rare moment of calm. Your chest felt warm, and at that moment you decided to call your parents Mommy Duck and Daddy Duck. Your mother smiled and said she’ll call you her little duckling then. Your father said he’ll call you his big duckling. 

If you were a duckling, and if your home were that big blue lake, right now you’d float alone in the middle of it. You’d watch as your parents drift farther apart. You could see them float across the water in opposite directions. You could watch them separate. It would make sense. Physical distance makes sense.

You could close that distance. Do what no duckling has done before and spread those wings early. Fly over the lake and realize how little it all really is. That the big, blue lake was never big after all. That the sky is so much bigger and bluer. You could fly across the sky and call out to your parents. Remind them of your time at the lake. Beg them not to hurt you like this.

But you aren’t a duckling. You can’t see your parents and you can’t fly. You're in your room and you can’t bring yourself to move. You now wonder if you could have predicted this separation, stopped it. What happened? Was it your fault? Were you not enough? Did they need more of a reason to stay? Is nothing at fault? Then what? What do you feel then? 

Sadness is a good start. Anger too. You can feel both. You do feel both. Also a little bit of fear. And, is that joy? No, it can’t be. Can it?

You close your eyes and tremble. You don’t know what to do. You couldn’t know what to do. It’s impossible. A lot is impossible for you. You bite the soft of your palm. Flood your body with the pain you know to avoid the pain you can’t. It’s not working. Your palm is numb as you cry into the teeth marks. It doesn’t matter how hard you bite down or how much skin you break. The tears are not a response to physical pain, they are from something far worse. Something you can’t explain.

You will come to blame your father. Your mother. Yourself. You will hate your parents. Deeply and randomly. That hate will come as you dream, meet your first lover, pass by clear and lonely lakes. You will imagine their deaths. Vengeful and heinous images. You will also imagine your death. How it will force all those memories out forever. You will hate yourself for thinking that.

You will love them, miss them. This too will come randomly. You won’t want to feel this. It hurts more than you thought possible. Hate comes easier than love. You will wish that weren’t true. 

You will learn. That sometimes relationships end. That there is not always an answer. That love is not ethereal. That it’s real, tangible. As physical as flesh and bone. Prone to bruises and fractures. 

You will remember how they called you duckling. You will wish you were a duckling. A thoughtless animal running on instinct. That relationships aren’t anything special. Just a product of instinct and mating seasons. And once that instinct is sated, the relationship ends. No tears shed, no love lost. There was never any love to begin with, after all.

But you never were a duckling. You were, are, and always will be an emotional creature. Capable of feeling hurt, of feeling love. One day, that thought will make you smile. You’ll see your hurting as proof of your love. Proof that you never lost that warm feeling in your chest as you looked at the lake with your family. 

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Nicolas Muszynski was born and raised in the suburbs of Chicago. When he’s not at his writing desk, you can find him on the stages of various community theatre groups.