Not so Gull-a-bill - Flash Fiction by James Walton

 

Not so Gull-a-bill

Flash Fiction

by James Walton

Not so Gull-a-bill

A seagull has moved into the northside mall. It prefers the open-air café. For a few days security and traders tried to chase it away, then the centre management left the automatic doors on open. A flock of sparrows got in and roosted in the supermarket rafters, so loud the broadcast music could barely be heard over the incessant chirping. Overnight they disappeared and the big store kept announcing the half lighting was to enhance the shopping experience.

The gull took to sitting on the rubbish bin outside the massage business as its presence had become normal, and it only gave an occasional squawk, keeping an eye out for discarded lemon meringue, double choc muffins, or a piece of croissant. One midafternoon a toddler failed to surrender the end of a jam doughnut and was bitten by the bird which could not comprehend the uncivil selfishness. The jam on its bright yellow beak was mistaken for blood and the child was loud.

The gunshots were louder. A dog had been tied to the bike rail in front of the special car parking space at the entrance to the centre. When the Armour Van service pulled in the animal became increasingly agitated, barking for its owner who was at the take away sushi stand. The dog stretched on its lead towards the two security drivers carrying chained money drums which dragged across the concrete making a challenging sound to which it responded, growling.

While the owner held his dying pet, and a mother cradled a child, and people crouched down, wondering and fearing what was happening, the seagull flew out through the main entrance where the doors opened and closed on a group of people staying low for protective cover. Some teenagers remarked that no one knew it could fly, as it seemed to spend most of its stationary time counting the feathers on each wing, preening in a slow patterned fashion of indifference to the shopping world, in between a few hops for discards.

Veering in a return arc the seagull swept over the car park, circled the now empty sausage stall, saw the herons flying their long crucifix toward the wetland reserve, but the scent of ocean, trailing the spores of dune wattle, and the wan memory of cuttle fish cracking, caught its flight. At the south roundabout it paused to sit on the big M, where the air hung with fat and oil, and ravens chased chips, splitting and throwing, and magpies swooped people holding food while opening car doors, their fingers loose for the task.

From the jet iris in its xanthic eye, the brethren grey wings of once, dangle in the spray of the rip, where scope closed the horizon, bringing kin near. First dive, then stroke, now wind and beat, the road in background, the damp shoreline kelp a familiar landing. Backs are arched, beaks wide in challenge. The penitent settles in sand, clouds voice lightning, and the rain brings all into a closing squall.

James Walton is published in many anthologies, journals, and newspapers. He has been shortlisted for the ACU National Poetry Prize, the MPU International Poetry Prize, The James Tate Prize, and the Ada Cambridge Prize. Five collections of his poetry have been published. He was nominated for ‘The Best of the Net’ 2019, and for the Pushcart Prize 2021 and 2023/24. He also writes published short stories and flash fiction.