The Seagull Man

by Maxine Churchman

dark rum and coke

Tall and thin, he walked confidently along the seafront, seagulls screeching mournfully as they circled his head. 

He wore a thick woolly hat, even though the summer sun was hot. The bony tips of his angular elbows, protruding through holes in his sleeves, were red as though embarrassed to be in view. His gait was light and unhurried; the stones hardly moved beneath his worn shoes.

Gulls large and small, some with their youthful brown colouring, landed by his feet and kept pace with him, their eyes watching each other and the plastic bag dangling from his hand. One particularly large gull landed on his shoulder, his slight frame dipping a little under its weight.

Squabbles broke out on the ground, with beaks jabbing and feathers flying. The man kept smiling and the bird on his shoulder seemed unconcerned.

When they reached the edge of the sea, he stopped and opened the bag. The noise of the birds grew in anticipation of a feast. More scuffles broke out. Still, the largest bird of all stayed on the man’s shoulder. At last the man upturned the bag, shaking out crumbs and crusts of bread and other tasty morsels. Some were scooped up in mid-air; some were snatched by smaller nimbler gulls on the periphery on the main action, darting in and out before the deadly beaks of the larger gulls could impale them. And still, the king of the seagulls perched on the man’s shoulder.

The man looked at the bird and brought the back of his hand up to its white chest, smoothing down the feathers and cooing to it like a lover. As the last crumbs were snapped up by the eager feeders, the bird stretched its neck, opened its beak wide and called its familiar refrain. All the other birds flew into the air as if of one mind. The man stretched his arms wide and three of the largest gulls joined the one on his shoulder: two stood on each side. The birds rose into the air slowly, lifting the man and carrying him over the sea and away.

Where he is now?

I have walked along the seafront on numerous occasions but, I haven’t seen him since.

About the author

Maxine Churchman is from Essex UK. Her hobbies include reading, hiking, yoga and more recently writing. So far she has concentrated on short stories, but hopes to make progress on a Novel in 2020. cccmaxine.blogspot.com

Kitty Corner - A Good Turn

by Maxine Churchman

Warm milk and honey

During the warmer months, after the leaves unfurl, I spend most of my time near the top of my favourite tree. I like to climb up early, before too many people are around, and I stay to watch the comings and goings of the neighbourhood below. I stay really still, so no-one notices me – and sometimes I nap.

From my vantage point, I have a good view of Mr Donovan’s garden and his bird feeder. Every morning, he shuffles down his lumpy path, with his walking stick in one hand and scraps for the birds in the other.

I like Mr Donovan; he talks to me and sometimes gives me treats. He has a great potting shed too, with lots of interesting nooks and crannies to explore, and spiders to play with.

As I watched, I saw his back door open. It was sometime before he emerged into the sun light though. His stick preceded him and he edged through the door awkwardly, shuffling sideways ,holding onto the frame until he was almost facing the wrong way. He reached into the doorway, picked up the plate with the scraps for the birds and did an odd shuffling dance until he was facing down the garden again. He stood still for ages, so I lost interest and looked around for something more interesting.

Two old ladies came around the bend, walking slowly towards my tree. One was like a sapling in the wind; tall, thin and bent over at the top. The other was heavy and waddled like a duck. They were carrying shopping bags and I spent a few minutes imaging what wonderful items they may have bought. I could see their mouths moving, one starting to speak even before the other had finished, but from that distance I couldn’t hear their words.

I yawned from boredom and considered a quick nap, when my attention was caught by a croaky shout followed by a soft thud. Mr Donovan was lying on his path face down, with his stick wedged awkwardly under his hip. The plate was on the grass surrounded by spilled scraps. I wondered if any of the scraps were worth getting down for, but I wasn’t particularly hungry and it was a long way down. The women were still quite a way off, but their voices were starting to reach me. I looked around for something else to amuse me, but after a couple of cars passed by, it was all quiet again.

Mr Donovan hadn’t moved and I thought I could see blood near his head. I thought perhaps I should take a closer look, so I climbed down carefully and squeezed through the bars of his gate, noting that Mr Donovan was not visible from the path outside.

After walking around him a couple of times and checking out the scraps I wondered if I should do something. There was certainly blood leaking from his head and his breathing sounded raspy. The voices of the two women caught my attention as they approached the gate. I squeezed back out onto the path and waited for them to get closer.

“Follow me, man down,” I yelled at them.

They stopped and looked at me.

“Hello kitty, you’re a friendly one aren’t you?” one crooned at me. I considered rubbing up against her leg, but I was too annoyed with them to show such pleasure.

“Ridiculous people, I want you to follow me,” I yelled in frustration and walked towards the gate. I looked back and they were just gawking at me, like the goldfish in Mandy’s bedroom.

“I don’t think he wants you to pet him Mary, he sounds angry. What a strange cat.”

“It’s almost like he wants us to follow him. Look at the way he is looking at us - so expectantly.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mary, let’s get home before it rains.”

They walked past the gate, so I ran in front of them, almost tripping the sapling.

“What is wrong with you people? Follow me or I’ll bite your ankles.” I thought perhaps they would respond better to a threat, but I don’t like biting ankles, it leaves a bad taste in the mouth. I weaved back and forward in front of them, so they couldn’t continue onward, then I pushed between them. “Now! You slow dogs,” I shouted over my shoulder.

Thankfully they followed me to the gate. I continued calling to them from the other side.

“I think there might be someone fallen over in the garden Iris. Come on let’s take a closer look.”

I climbed back up the tree and watched proceedings from my vantage point. At last there was something worth watching, although I could have done without the wailing sirens. There were several people fussing around Mr Donovan for ages. Just before it became too boring, he was taken away in a van with blue flashing lights.

When everything was quiet again, I felt exhausted so I settled down for a good nap.

About the author

Maxine Churchman is a mother and grandmother from Essex UK. Her hobbies include reading, hiking, yoga and more recently writing. So far she has concentrated on short stories, but hopes to make progress on a Novel in 2020. cccmaxine.blogspot.com

Schadenfreude

by Maxine Churchman

still water

Something was up: terse welcomes and furtive glances as I entered. No-one met my eye. On my desk stood a plastic toy goat; they all knew. My face burned with indignation as I heard stifled sniggers. Sitting, I pretended not to notice.

My phone bleeped indicating a new message. It was a video snippet showing my humiliation. The goat charged, bang, splat, I landed face first in mud. I imagined it was someone else and realised it looked hilarious. I chuckled. Laughter broke out as my colleagues crowded me. I was astounded, they weren’t laughing at me but with me.

About the author

Maxine Churchman lives in Essex UK and has recently started writing poetry and short stories to share. Her work has been included in anthologies by Stormy Island Publishing, Black Hare Press and Clarendon House Publishing. Her interests include reading, walking and teaching yoga. She is also in the early stages of planning a novel.