Gull Trouble

A solitary seagull perches atop the steepled roof of the parkade attendant's booth. Its mournful regard lingers on you momentarily as you stroll past, unhurriedly making your way to the train station. You always keep your watch a few minutes fast, but you don't really need the precious extra few minutes this time around. You're making your way to an interview, standing tall and proud in your new, expensive navy blue suit, hoping to make a good impression. You've been unemployed for six months, but you're only now starting to feel the pinch on your pocketbook — the severance package you received when you were laid off from your last position was generous enough to tide you over for several months.

You glance around, relaxed and confident, and a smile from an attractive female passerby catches your eye. You smile back, feeling like you're on top of the world.


Something cold and sticky hits you square on the back of the head, trickling slowly down your neck and into the collar of your shirt and suit jacket. You release an elaborate string of curses, reaching up to feel what hit you. A large glob of white fecal matter glistens wetly in your palm. Bird crap. Great, just what I needed. The woman you were trading flirting glances with moments earlier stifles a laugh behind her gloved hand as she scurries past you.

You whirl around, spying the seagull landing back on his hutch in a ruffle of feathers. It opens it beak and squawks loudly at you; a sound eerily reminiscent of a human guffaw. You seethe in impotent rage, frustrated. If you stop and try and clean this off, you might miss your train — and more importantly, your interview.

The End

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