An excerpt from the very first short novel I wrote when I was 23 years old:
The Duck Of Freedom
While Frank, the cop, was with his fists n’ boots mutilating his comrade in arms ~
A white duck, lost, and in love with being lost, and loving freedom too, without a back pack but with a quack quack was waddling along the highway side. The duck’s beady eyes, which were stinging the scenery every which way, caught sight of the steel chain around Tulip’s ankle. He kind of grunted, like some ducks do, waddled up and quacked the chain into little pieces.
After he did this, Tulip rubbed her raw but now gratefully free ankle with her hand, and very pleased, told him, “Thank you, Mr. Duck.”
The duck ducked his head as if dodging this acknowledgment by Tulip and in his best English replied, “I’m a goose.”
But he was really a duck ~ and waddled away, quacking.
This happening created a supplementary addition to Tulip’s beliefs. She now believed in miracles.
“Quack! Quack!” she cried joyously to the retreating white speck out yonder as it disappeared around the highway bend…
a story about freedom