Briefly Knocked Unconscious By A Low-Flying Duck


Briefly Knocked Unconscious By A Low Flying Duck

Stories From 2nd Story

“The stories are endlessly relatable and their tellers are true masters of the craft, able to make you laugh, make you cry, and make you want to do it all over again once you’ve finished. This collection will demand, and receive, return trips from its readers.” 
—Publishers Weekly, Starred Review


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Since early man carved bison and spears on cave walls, humankind has been telling stories. Today, short personal essays are a mainstay on the airways, the web, and in theaters and bars across the country. This anthology brings the vibrant oral tradition to the page through the work of 2nd Story, a Chicago-based collective of story-makers and story-lovers working to build community through storytelling. We culled through ten years of archived performances to select the twenty-three essays presented in this collection. Each was adapted from the stage to the page.


Binding: Paper
ISBN: 9780984670062
Pages: 248
Price: $20.00

Praise & Reviews


2nd Story

Since 2002, 2nd Story has hosted story-sharing performances and workshop/classes that fuse page, stage, and sound to deliver a unique live literary/theatrical experience. The stories range from the serious to the silly and can at once provoke and entertain. Each story is combined with musical accompaniment to enhance the spoken story and the pregnant pause. A typical show consists of four (or three or five) stories dispersed throughout the evening like courses in a meal.

Read Chapter 1

Chapter 1: September 1993

The carnival at Bray stood huddled against the rain on the rocky coastline of the Irish Sea, the pink and green lights of the old-fashioned Ferris wheel winking and dissolving in the reflection of the waves. Maggie had already ridden the Takeoff, which made her feel like a pebble being skipped across a lake; the Crazy Frog, which whiplashed her back and forth so hard that she dinged her head off the safety bar and emerged with a painful purple egg already rising from her temple; and finally, Space Odyssey, which spun around so fast that gravity suctioned her and Ronnie to the cushioned wall like splattered bugs. Halfway through the ride, a girl who was pinioned across from them barfed, but the suction was so strong that the puke no sooner arced from her mouth than it was sucked back with a wet splat all over her own face. The ride ended abruptly, sending everyone thudding to the ground, and the sisters fled the sour smell of peanuty vomit on wobbly legs.

“Where to next?” Ronnie was counting the remaining tokens in her palm. “I still have enough for three more rides.”

“Aren’t you getting cold?” Maggie looked at her little sister, whose pale, wet hair was plastered to her head and whose hand-me-down windbreaker hung to her knees as warm and waterproof as a plastic grocery bag.

“Yeah, but Mom said she wasn’t going to pick us up until the carnival closes.” Ronnie squinted across the dark road at the row of pubs and moss-streaked hotels where their mother had fled with Colm. “Do you think they’ll get back sooner?”

“And interrupt honeymoon time?” Maggie laughed. “Be serious.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re my age.” “But that’s what you said about ‘douche,’ and ‘condom,’ and the first line of that Liz Phair song,” Ronnie complained.

“Well,” Maggie said, putting an arm around her sister’s thin shoulders and drawing her under the leaky umbrella, “honeymoon time is kind of like all three of those combined. When you’re sixteen and I’m twenty-one, we’ll talk all about it. Now—where should we cash in the rest of those tokens?”

“Bumper cars!” Ronnie shrieked, breaking free from the protection of the umbrella and racing ahead to the arena, where empty cars pointed every which way like in one of those apocalyptic movies where a whole city evacuates to escape an infectious disease.

“Don’t you want to go on the Ferris wheel?” Maggie called after her. She reached up and touched the lump at her temple. It was hot and throbbing, and dotted in the center with a small smear of blood.

“C’mon! Let’s do the bumper cars! Please? Please? Please? Please?” Ronnie hopped up and down beneath her sodden windbreaker.

“Fine,” Maggie sighed, holding out her hand to the rain to clean the blood from her fingers.

Ronnie flashed a winning smile, infectious and gap toothed, and they lined up behind the small herd of other little kids who stood waiting to turn in their tokens. Maggie was taller than all of them by at least a head. Earlier, they’d passed a group of Irish teenagers, kids of about Maggie’s age—maybe even her future classmates at Saint Brigid’s. The boys were dressed in tracksuits and gym shoe brands she’d never heard of, and the girls wore tights under their skirts and heavy gold necklaces. Not one of them had even glanced in her direction. Maggie was quickly learning that being Irish-American, as she was, was quite different than actually being Irish. Now, she stood behind Ronnie and watched the group as they walked toward the road. Their clothes, their slang, the way they wore their hair: all of it was foreign and unfamiliar; all of it was new, intimidating, and strange. I’m never going to fit in here, she thought.