The Other Ugly Duckling
There once was a duckling born beneath a crooked willow, in a pond where reeds whispered and dragonflies danced. But unlike the others, this duckling was not sleek or golden. Its feathers were mottled, its voice shrill, and its gait awkward. The other ducklings pecked and jeered. “You’re not one of us,” they quacked. “You’re ugly.”
The duckling tried to fit in - mimicking their waddles, echoing their songs - but nothing worked. Hurt and rejected, it left the pond behind.
Beyond the reeds, it found a lake where swans glided like moonlight. Their necks arched in elegance, their wings shimmered. The duckling approached, hopeful. The swans welcomed it with soft coos and gentle grooming. They fussed over its feathers, tried to smooth its cries. “You will be a swan,” they promised.
But the duckling felt stifled. Its voice was not soft, its movements not graceful. The swans meant well, but they did not understand. Their kindness was a cage. So the duckling left again.
It wandered alone - through marshes and meadows, over hills and under stars. It grew weary. Sadness clung to its feathers like frost. It questioned everything: its shape, its sound, its very being. Who could understand a creature so unlike the ducks, so unlike the swans?
Not the Emperor of the land, who paraded in silks and declared all creatures must conform. Not the ducks, who mocked. Not the swans, who soothed but silenced.
The duckling wandered far, through swirling mists and scorching winds. It crossed cracked earth and shadowed forests, always searching, never finding.
Then, one night, as thunder rolled and lightning split the sky, the duckling huddled beneath a twisted tree. Rain lashed the ground. The storm howled like its own heart.
And in that tempest, it saw a shape - small, hunched, trembling. Another duckling. Not golden. Not graceful. Ugly, too.
They stared at each other. No words. Just recognition.
The second duckling stepped closer. Its feathers were patchy, its voice raw. “I thought I was alone,” it said.
“So did I,” whispered the first.
They sat together as the storm raged. No need to explain. No need to pretend. They were the same - not ducks, not swans, not subjects of the Emperor. Just two souls who had wandered, wept, and waited.
And in that moment, the first duckling felt something shift - not in its feathers, but in its heart. It was still ugly. Still different. But no longer alone.
They would journey on together - through storms and silence, through misunderstanding and mirth. Fellow travellers. Companions. Ugly ducklings, yes. But understood.
There once was a duckling born beneath a crooked willow, in a pond where reeds whispered and dragonflies danced. But unlike the others, this duckling was not sleek or golden. Its feathers were mottled, its voice shrill, and its gait awkward. The other ducklings pecked and jeered. “You’re not one of us,” they quacked. “You’re ugly.”
The duckling tried to fit in - mimicking their waddles, echoing their songs - but nothing worked. Hurt and rejected, it left the pond behind.
Beyond the reeds, it found a lake where swans glided like moonlight. Their necks arched in elegance, their wings shimmered. The duckling approached, hopeful. The swans welcomed it with soft coos and gentle grooming. They fussed over its feathers, tried to smooth its cries. “You will be a swan,” they promised.
But the duckling felt stifled. Its voice was not soft, its movements not graceful. The swans meant well, but they did not understand. Their kindness was a cage. So the duckling left again.
It wandered alone - through marshes and meadows, over hills and under stars. It grew weary. Sadness clung to its feathers like frost. It questioned everything: its shape, its sound, its very being. Who could understand a creature so unlike the ducks, so unlike the swans?
Not the Emperor of the land, who paraded in silks and declared all creatures must conform. Not the ducks, who mocked. Not the swans, who soothed but silenced.
The duckling wandered far, through swirling mists and scorching winds. It crossed cracked earth and shadowed forests, always searching, never finding.
Then, one night, as thunder rolled and lightning split the sky, the duckling huddled beneath a twisted tree. Rain lashed the ground. The storm howled like its own heart.
And in that tempest, it saw a shape - small, hunched, trembling. Another duckling. Not golden. Not graceful. Ugly, too.
They stared at each other. No words. Just recognition.
The second duckling stepped closer. Its feathers were patchy, its voice raw. “I thought I was alone,” it said.
“So did I,” whispered the first.
They sat together as the storm raged. No need to explain. No need to pretend. They were the same - not ducks, not swans, not subjects of the Emperor. Just two souls who had wandered, wept, and waited.
And in that moment, the first duckling felt something shift - not in its feathers, but in its heart. It was still ugly. Still different. But no longer alone.
They would journey on together - through storms and silence, through misunderstanding and mirth. Fellow travellers. Companions. Ugly ducklings, yes. But understood.
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