The Beach
Two people lying on a beach towel
are tanning and they fall asleep. They will probably get sunburns because they
want their skin to be darker. They will probably get cancer some day and
doctors will be depressed/smug as they cry in a hospital room with their
beautiful darkened skin. They are sleeping on their beach towels dreaming about
laying on the beach getting a sick new tan. In their direct vicinity is a
trench dug by two screaming children in bathing suits, a poorly crafted
sandcastle (with a complimentary stick lodged in the top of it), and a French
Fry container –
currently resting on the top of their cooler.
A seagull with shitty feathers flies
down and slowly hops over to the water cooler. The bird pines for the French fries.
The people rest. On top of the cooler, a chipped beak glistens in the sun. “Hey
wait, don’t eat those,” a second seagull says, flying in from above. They both
sit on the cooler
staring at one another. “Hello, I’m Joanie the seagull.”
“Hello Joanie, I’m Chachi the
seagull.”
For some strange reason, the
seagulls always felt the need to clarify that they were seagulls to one
another, because of some social norm or something. At family gatherings
seagulls would always say things like, ‘oh hey, this is Rus the seagull’ or ‘yo
Janet the seagull!’ Someone said something about it once and they were made to
feel very stupid about it.
Chachi looks at Joanie the seagull
and asks her about the French fries. “Why shouldn’t I eat these? They look very
delicious and I have a low-self esteem.” Chachi’s dumpy feathers were
reminiscent of a sock found on the beach near a garbage can, which, as one can
probably easily discern, is not very ‘top-shelf’ or ‘wicked-sick’. In a sense
however, this opened up Chachi’s world, granting him a multitude of trashy
choices (normally not present to the bourgeois seagulls that hang out by a
nearby Olive Garden), which includes eating sand-covered French fries by two
smouldering individuals.
Joanie the seagull caws at Chachi
regarding their predicament, stating that she would also like to eat some of
the French fries – regardless of the ever-present sand – if Chachi is open to
the idea of sharing his newly found treasure. His black, bulbous eyes glance at
the French fries momentarily. “Okay but let’s keep this quick before the flock
catches wind.”
Immediately, the two of them plunge
beak first into the container of French fries, choking them down their narrow
throats. Their eating, a syncopated dance, is brief and quick, characterised
by
jutting, repetitive, upward thrusts of their heads – the locking and unlocking
of their necks pounding toward the sun, like pistons in an engine.
The skyline goes dark as a ring of
seagulls notices the nearly empty French fry container. The flock begins to
swivel with birds diving down, albeit briefly, as an intimidation tactic. However,
the two remain unmoved by the gesture. The flock lowers itself several feet
with birds swooping more frequently. The two continue to feast. Lower. Feast.
Lower. Feast. Lower. Feast. A cycle, not unlike
the physical nature of the flock
itself.
The moment culminates with a French
fry that is several inches long. Both Chachi the seagull and Joanie the seagull
feast on this French Fry, starting from either side, their black globular eyes
interlocked. The flock narrows in with extended wings. The swelling of their
throats in tandem resonates on the beach – the final beat of an unwound clock.
“Oh what the fuck! Get the out of
here; Goddamn it…” a voice emits with flailing arms. “Yo, wake up!” The arms
cease their flailing and a deflated expression paints itself across their recently
singed faces. “These dumb fucking birds ate our fries.”
Fin.
