Fish ‘n’ Chips

By Melanie Cosgrave

John sighed contentedly as he sat down on his favorite bench at the very end of the pier, as far from the bustling high street as he could get. It was 3:00 in the afternoon, a cold wind blew hard off the bay, and there wasn’t a single soul in sight—just the way he liked it. He cradled his lunch: crisp battered fish nestled in a bed of glorious chips, all wrapped in newspaper, as was only proper.

He’d had an awful day, dealing with the shenanigans of the scientists in their shiny new university building on the hill. Their curiosity would be the death of him. When they weren’t coming up with new and harebrained experiments, they were rebuilding their labs in order to attempt them. It had taken months to reopen the doors after Professor Richardson had blown up the bathrooms in a bid to “revolutionize sewage.” John shuddered. She’d revolutionized it all right. You could still smell the progress most days. All the more reason to eat on the pier.

Those pompous gits were constantly throwing caution to the winds and ignoring John’s perfectly reasonable safety requests. Don’t set things on fire without proper precautions. Don’t experiment on the students. Don’t consume untested, mind-altering materials unsupervised. Definitely don’t do all three of those at once. What was the point of being a health and safety officer if no one listened to you? It’s like they didn’t even want to qualify for insurance!

But all that was forgotten. John plucked the first golden nugget from the paper and raised it to his mouth. Intoxicated by the savory smell, he was about to close his eyes when something moved to his left. A seagull was sidling up to him.

“Oh no you don’t, you thieving blighter!” John leapt to his feet. He’d had his lunch stolen by a blasted bird before, it would not happen again. He flapped his free hand violently. “Shoo!”

A disembodied voice echoed over the otherwise-empty pier. “Well, that was jolly rude!”

John whipped his head from left to right. He couldn’t see any speakers, and he’d left his phone in the office. No one else was having lunch this late, let alone in the brisk breeze. The only living being in sight—other than himself—was the seagull. John narrowed his eyes at the bird. The nasty thing looked sleeker than the average gull, but it was otherwise nondescript: a beak, two wings, two eyes, some black feathers, more white feathers. You know, a seagull.

It clacked its beak smartly. “It’s also rude to stare!”

“Seagulls can’t speak.” John glared about wildly. He still couldn’t see the source of the noise. Maybe it was a ventriloquist? “It’s a trick, isn’t it?”

“Again, rude! You shouldn’t assume things about people. You know what they say, making asses out of you and me.”

The coarse voice was definitely coming from the gull. It had a bit of a cockney twang. Why would a Dorset bird have a London accent? John shook his head. It didn’t matter. It didn’t have an accent. Birds couldn’t talk.

“Very funny guys. Is it some new technology? Which one of you is doing it?” John’s voice cracked. He craned his neck, trying to see the other end of the pier. He really hated scientists.

“Oi, mate. Do I look like I’m wearing a wire? No technology here. Just little old me, one bona fide talking seagull.” The seagull puffed out its breast feathers importantly and sauntered closer. “Now, I have an important question for you.” It swung its head around at an unnerving angle, as if looking for eavesdroppers. John leaned in despite himself.

“Do you …” It sidled closer still. “…believe in magic?”

John scowled. “Of course no—”

The seagull lunged forward, tore the bag of food from John’s hands with a triumphant “Yoink!” and flapped off, leaving John gaping after it. “So long, sucker!” The bird cackled, flapping erratically back toward town. “I was a thieving blighter after all!”

A loose piece of newspaper fluttered from the seagull’s haphazard wake, drifting to a stop at John’s feet. He picked it up and stared at the day’s headline.

AVIAN EXPERIMENT ESCAPES!

John sprinted back up the hill at breakneck speed.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in France and raised in Ireland, Melanie Cosgrave has always identified herself primarily as a bookworm. Her love of reading led her to study English at university. Teacher training soon followed so that she could share her enthusiasm for language and literature with as many people as possible. Currently living in Sweden, Melanie splits her time between her books, her students, and dog walks with her partner, Björn.