The following transcript was found in an attic in an old house on the south side of town.
Well, I guess we’ll start off with the basics if I’m going to write a diary. Hmm... haven’t done one of these before. Where do I begin? Okay, my name is Donald Mallard. My father was Darwin Affyd Uck (of course, he always signed his signature D. Affyd Uck to save time), and I was born and raised in the Oakland River area. Actually, right in the heart of Oakland River to be exact.
I’ll cut to the chase. Yes, I am a duck. Scientifically, I’m known as an Anas Platyrhynchos. I don’t enjoy pronouncing that any more than you would. Yes, I can write English. I can read too. I can’t speak English of course, due to the lack of the same vocal structure as humans, but I have tried. It wasn’t too helpful.
I’m writing this today because frankly, I’m sick and tired of the average duck life. I know the rules about how we aren’t to involve ourselves in human affairs, and I don’t plan to. However, I find their ability to express abstract thought quite interesting and found it far easier to do so with an actual language instead of simple quacks.
Oh, diary, how I detest speaking with my fellow duck! It’s simply maddening! The word for goodbye is the same as the word hello. The phrase “I am hungry” is the same as “Get away from me!” Everything one wishes to say must be made by saying “Quack!” Yesterday I tried asking Abitha out for an evening swim, and she misinterpreted it as an attempt to pluck the individual feathers from her body! This duck language is so dreadfully limited; I cannot say what I wish to say, nor how I wish to say it. Don’t even get me started on proper pronounciation or synonyms or phonics. Those are not even dreams for my species yet, and I seriously doubt they ever will be.
I want to be a poet, diary. I feel that I could make a lasting contribution on duck kind if I could just let the other species know that we’re not as stupid as we appear! Diary, I’m sure you’ve heard the term ‘sitting duck’ by now. I find that racially offensive and am absolutely heartbroken by its usage. I want to show people that we are more than a bumbling bunch of boorish birds bickering and babbling over the bountiful beauties around us, we are in fact an ancient assembly of antidae amiably aiming for an amazing and awesome lifestyle! I want ducks to be able to not simply quibble and quack without worthwhile meanings but to sing! To dance! Oh diary, for a duck to be more than a duck! For a duck to soar high above the heavens and indulge itself in literature, in geography, in world history! Oh diary, I want to see Paris! I want to roam the world, setting my webbed feet wherever I can! There’s so much to see, so much to do...
But yet...sadly...oh so terribly, I am but a mere duck. An insignificant speck. Nothing more than a single-celled organism floating around in a petri dish. I’m useless. I’m doomed to be below average, doomed to live a totally uninteresting life. Diary, if only you knew how difficult it was typing all these words in the first place with FEATHERS for hands! I’m in a world where my talents cannot be used to their extent! The world isn’t ready for me! I’m like a hole puncher in a warehouse where the paper isn’t ready yet. I’m like an actor without a stage. A radio without an outlet. A light when there’s nobody home.
I’m sorry for bringing this all down on you, diary. Perhaps I should just go back to Oakland River before someone notices I’m gone. If anyone’s noticed I’ve gone, anyway. Which I bet they haven’t. Of course they haven’t. They wouldn’t notice if the sun set three hours early, or if the river froze a month after winter began...I should go. I’m only reaching for an impossible dream in doing this anyway.
I wonder what’s for dinner tonight. Probably worms. Again.
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If you found this slightly entertaining, check this out for even more fun.