A Tongue-in-Cheek Seaside Conspiracy
It was the third time this week I’d caught the seagull taking notes.
They don’t even look real. Image created by Author with Copilot.
The sun beat down on the white sand beach, its rays hellbent on destroying everything on it.
Is that why the sand is so white? The sun bleached all its color?
My cheap sunglasses from the dollar store stood no chance of combating the intensity, especially with the assault coming from above and reflecting off the water.
Waves crashed against the shore, the rip tides visible between the whitecaps. Danger everywhere, both obvious and hidden. I just wanted to enjoy my week at the beach with my wife.
But how could I with “him” everywhere I went?
The “seagull.” He hadn’t blinked thirty-seven minutes. I’d timed it.
Because it’s not a bird. It’s a NSA asset spying on me.
Evil little bastard. Image created by Author with Gemini.
Now, I’ve done nothing to warrant being spied on, unless you count eating ketchup on eggs, which my wife thinks is a capital offense. Though I doubt the government is interested in that.
Why are they stalking me?
I didn’t know, but they were. The sky rat stood not three feet from me, turning its mechanical head but keeping one eye always on me.
If I run at it, would it fly?
I jumped off my blue and white stripped towel and did.
It flew when I approached, but landed again. Still watching.
A flock of pelicans swooped down in perfect formation.
Calling for backup, eh?
The pelicans began “fishing” right in front of me. No doubt planting sonar to pick up any conversations in the water.
A child nearby started feeding other seagulls, oblivious to the danger.
Oh, you sweet summer child. You’re not feeding birds; you’re charging their batteries. Enough of this.
I’d be safer inside. I packed my sand-castle shaped bucket, plastic shovel, and towel.
As I slipped on my second flip-flop, the seagull responded. It squawked like a dial-up modem having a seizure.
In that moment, I knew. And I knew it knew I knew.
Fear gripped my chest, and I bolted to the condo, like I was being cast for a Baywatch reboot. As I reached the sliding glass doors, I glanced back one last time. The seagull perched on a post, its beady eyes boring into me.
And I swear on everything holy; the damn thing winked.
It was the last straw. People needed to know.
I stood on my tippiest of toes, pointed at the bastard, and screamed, “I don’t give two flocks, but I’m telling you right now — those motherfeathers are not real!”
:)
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