Conversions Overheard Vol. 3: Gulled One Sighting.

Ophelia Jones,
Times Correspondent

I walk by the beach a lot but I don't put on sunscreen or sit on a towel, so I can't say I'm at the beach. But I know what the beach is, I've smelt the salt and sulfur in all the upchucked burps that escaped my innards. Legend says my late 2000s un-sober parents are still waiting for me to come back to their picnic. Today I was at the beach sitting on the concrete flood wall writing about little gnome-like ghostlings of smoke I was pretending to see.

I can't remember where I usually look, but I remember I was looking down, past my boots to the sand below where I saw a figure of wallowed weeds, bits of othered shit, and gumbles of yellow legal pads scrapped into origami foldings all hung from a big bird like body, who was sitting down and singing into their pocket. They had a bird skull worn round their neck with smooth calm grooves worn into it like it had been stroked reflexively well someone was falling asleep. They looked up at me as if I could tell I was thinking about it and showed me their bird skull. I got shy and told them "I had writer's block". Then we both went back to being in that strange place, alone, so close to strangers.

I had suspicions this might be that Gulled One I'd heard about walking around downtown Lynn when a bird named Willow poured out from their pocket, flap-stumbling in his own way. They wore a raw, happy nest of a face that just faded to frown which then itself tore away to a chuckled up sigh. They looked down totally at the bird and began to recount their day, but only after patting him gently like you would a pretty sculpture made from a spoonful of oatmeal.

"I was six feet back in a grey painted skull, very numb, but now I could feel, if I still had synesthesia, I'd say I felt blue, but that isn't what crayons call the color of the sky. I think I saw an old lady snap a parakeet's neck, but I see like shit, so it could have been the other way round. Then I fell confused, and sat down on the sidewalk to use some chalk, but I didn't have any. I tried drawing with my finger, but that more so cut into me and split blood on pavement then left any drawings. I did find a gummy bear through, the sun split right through it, but it didn't melt. Even when its innards looked like fire, it didn't melt. I ended up picking it up and tucking it in a book I stole from the violent library. Stolen books end better. I had a bunch of stolen books but a big bundle of them tipsed out of my pocket and fell on the street. This old guy bent down to help me pick them up, but was like 'thanks fam' and walked away with them. Stolen books always end up elsewhere."

Their overtired scattered sweet runny eyes set, looking for the only bird to reply. They noticed that Willow was looking roughly at the ground. A bookish bird with all his feathers plucked out and arranged on his head in the shape of a hybrid bowler hat-tiara. (Naturally the pinnacle of all hats ever worn.) He's made proud by his fancy hat, ever distracting onlookers from the cold bare skin of a plucked bird.

Willow accidentally fell out of listening and started to hop around in a trail that I'm sure seemed sensible to him. The Gulled One reached down, with hands more filled with worms, adopted menthols and fine illegibly scribed notes than of any chicken finger stained finger bones. Kind hands worn with nervously jotted notes, a couple words in a row, then a doodle, then a doodle crossed out, and then on with more words. I'm sure they were once as important as those other important things they couldn't remember. Someone probably once said that you can tell what someone does for work by their hands, their hands weren't saying anything besides "seeking employment."

The Gulled One picked Willow up, who stopped trying to hop, slowed the flap of his wings, and generously paused his karate chopping of some invisible crabs with bouncing rotten meat duct taped to them. He looked up at his big friend, confused like they were surprised to see them, but didn't have to fake being happy about it. They looked past each other's corneas, folding in each other's gaze a story too long to explain, sorta like passing cheeky notes.

The little bird shook his head as if to remind himself to listen. The Gulled One plopped him up and then down, turning him around like you would a wind up toy about to walk off a table. Willow the featherless fashionista looked happy to be back on the ground, where they were undoubtedly smart and proceeded to wander off again not straying too far like they had a little imaginary leash tied to the big creature, he turning his little beak and beady eyes back to their big friend as they resumed their story story, to let them know they're still listening, mostly listening, or at least trying to.

I don't feel like I should share anymore of someone else's conversation, but I will add that the Gulled One continued on "And by the time I had finished eating I was more cantaloupe than bird..."

For more articles by Ophelia Jones, click here. To get in touch with this writer, email ophelia@surrealtimes.net.

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