Dead Seagull

It was hard to see what had killed it. It’s perfect white body was seemingly untouched. The tangle of innards jutting from its stomach was the only sign of death, as was its stillness. They are magnificent birds, so strong, so robust. And the white is pristine. And yet, they are such scavengers. Poor love. I hope it was fast and painless.

No one was about. No police cars, no woman with the plastic bag. I caught sight of a student in shorts returning to one of the halls along the Prom and a red car passed me but other than that no one. The man I see working on his computer in a house along Mill Street was up as usual, sitting there in his ground floor kitchen in his dressing gown staring at the screen, a large cereal packet open in the foreground. Is he working or gaming? Strange hours he keeps, but then so do I.

I wrote the first draft and now I must hone it. A nice woman, I liked her. I liked her before I spoke to her. It’s all in her work, the kindness, the shyness. I think. I want to do her justice, as I want to do them all. Let it be so. Let it be so.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.