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.