Ziggy stood atop a yellow bollard. He was waiting for some humans to come along with freshly cooked fish and chips. They were his favourite, especially those with vinegar on them. He knew it was unusual, but he had grown used to the taste whilst growing out of Chickhood.
His friends, the black-backed and herring gulls, still flew out to sea where they dove into the waves, surfacing with a fat silver fish in their beaks.
That for Ziggy, seemed like hard work. Battling the winds and the mounting waves, just to get a small fish! No, he liked the easy life, did Ziggy. The open ocean was not his style.
In the distance, slowly walking towards him, he saw a small family, fish and chips, in little paper conesp in their hands. Even from this distance, he detected the acrid scent of vinegar. It wafted over his beak. He bobbed down, preparing to launch himself into the air.
They were close now. A downward beat of his wings lifted him into the freshening breeze and he idly flapped as a light thermal blew beneath them, keeping him aloft with little effort.
As the family drew abreast of where Ziggy hovered. The little boy held out his hand. There was a chip wavering between his fingers. He was offering Ziggy a chip! With a loud squawk, Ziggy dove, grabbed the chip and was off up in the thermal again.
The rest of the family laughed at his antics. But, a few minutes later, when Ziggy saw a golden opportunity and dove down, grabbing a bunch of chips from the woman’s hand. She screamed ( he had inadvertently pecked her hand as he grabbed the chips), and waved her arms, trying to shoo Ziggy away.
This frightened Ziggy, so he flew higher, watching the family down his sharp beak. This was the first time he had pecked anyone. He was usually so careful. He was a bit sad, but, not too sad as he saw some more people heading his way. Surely they would also have chips?
His keen eyes stared at the oncoming people. Not a family this time but an elderly couple. They did not have chips but were eating burger buns. This, for Ziggy, was as good as chips. Easy to peck, easy to go down the throat.
He swooped down towards the people, making a beeline for the buns. The oldsters saw him coming and started shouting, waving arms and a newspaper, at him. Squawking with indignity, Ziggy lifted into the thermal, deciding that he had better fly away for now. People always threw food away so he could come back later and have a good feed.
Alighting on the Pier roof, he sat with all the other gulls, wings flapping now and then, when a squabble broke out. In the end, Ziggy got so fed up that he opened his wings, caught the thermals and flapped up and away towards the ocean, not to catch fish, like the others, but for a bit of peace and quiet. It was not his regular way, but sometimes, peace was infinitely better than being with the masses.
His wings turned a pink colour as the sun set and the sky become red with the setting sun. It would be better when all the people had left the promenade and he could eat his fill in peace.
Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. August, 2014
Wayward is the wind behind my back,
Whither it blows I cannot tell,
For I am the grain of dust blowing wild with the lack,
I am the a child of the Fell.
A Mistral that sends all the birds off in flight.
The breeze that debates when to turn.
And when it comes hurricane, creatures take fright,
So fast is the run, their feet burn.
A sou-wester heads for fishers at sea,
They race in the teeth of the gale,
Riding tumultuous waves as they flee,
Their faces are gaunt and so pale.
Gently the Zephyr pulls stalks of the grain
In wheatfields, both small and some vast.
Like waves on the ocean, like rivers and rain
Twisting around as they pass.
And still it blows in the hurricane’s eye,
Still as a graveyard at dusk.
I eddy and fro as the waves passing by,
‘Till I fall, a dried up old husk.
Copyright. Evelyn J. Steward. October, 2014
How fast time flies? I never knew it could, not when I was a whole lot younger. I like to think of the early 1960s as the best time of my life.
It was exciting. New-ish job which gave me the chance to fly to Canada and other places. Spain, France, Germany, The Netherlands and odd spots inbetween.
1960 was my first trip to Canada. I will not go into detail, other than to say that the journey outbound was on a BOAC jet prop. Stopping at several places going north from London (Heathrow) Airport. Not sure of all the stops but I think Manchester was one and the West Coast of Scotland. This was at night, so seeing the darkness of England inbetween airports where lights twinkled like fairy grottos, was amazing for a first ever flying traveller. Continue reading
“We’re breaking through!” shouted Henry Jackson to the diggers. To the men with rock axes he said, “hold it there a moment.” They put their tools down, resting on shovel or pick-axe handles, wiping dust from their craggy faces.
Sand splattered as Henry pounded down the slope towards the too bright, white tent. His newly arrived half-brother was resting after the journey, sipping a cool drink and lying on the single cot, looking quite nonchalant as he signalled to his brother – two fingers above the glass.
Henry clapped him on the shoulder to wake him. “We are almost through.” His excitement was palpable. It had been a tough morning, sweat streaked the dirt on his sun-browned visage.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Robert rubbed his eyes, moving his head out of the sunlight that streamed into the tent. He had had a rough journey to get to the site, at least, he deemed it so. Ever the lazy one! “In any case, why the panic. You’ve done this before!” Continue reading