Duck Soup
This never happened- I mean really, never happened to people like me. It was the sort of thing I would put in a story, not experience for myself. Write what you know, they always say- I guess this time writing Karma was catching up with me.
I wasn’t sorry- here I was, sitting next to a beautiful girl on my friend’s sofa, talking as the party went on around us- talking for hours, about everything.
It wasn’t that girls didn’t talk to me- but this girl? She had a smile that lit her face up like sunlight after rain- glowing, natural, and completely genuine. It warmed me so that I began to feel like I could tell her anything.
That was my first mistake. The moment I felt that, it seemed, Fate got involved and the conversation turned to books. And I mentioned that I was a writer- not of books, but that I’d had a few short stories published on this website where they gave you a weekly photo as a cue.
She was impressed, I could tell- asked me how long I’d been writing, what sort of stuff I wrote. She even understood what Spec Fic was. I was beginning to wonder if the story of us meeting was one I would be telling in the years to come. And it was.
The next thing she asked me was what that week’s photo was. And I told her.
Doesn’t matter how well a conversation is going- the words ‘dead fertilized duck embryo’ will probably kill it stone dead. One of these days, I’ll have to remember that sometimes, one word instead of four is OK.
Nicolas Papaconstantinou
Heh. Nice and meta and funny, Ellen.
Who knew a dead fertilized duck embryo could trigger such varied pieces of writing?
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