SNIFF…DO I SMELL STUFFED SEAGULLS?

By Truth or Derrick

 

While the unsuspecting students learn below, they are waiting; calmly watching, elusive.

 

The legends of these beasts have been passed around with each new class, like drugs in the bathroom.

 

They are giant winged rodents, these Seagulls of the Creek. Their origin is vague - we suspect the ocean - nevertheless, we, the unsuspecting student population, have learned to watch our steps.

 

For those of you that didn't know, Stockton is the home of the most well organized bird mafia in the world. The head of this infamous group of notorious fowl live on this campus: the Seagulls of the Creek.

Every day of the year, ever since the school opened, these Seagulls circle overhead, like vultures, waiting for their moment of attack.

 

But these fowls haven't always been foul. In the beginning, the group mainly focused on getting something to eat.

 

It hasn't been difficult. When we students eat, we do not necessarily consume, chew or even put anything in our mouths. We find ways to drop the food we buy on the floor. Perhaps it's the hypnotizing call of the Seagulls that we hear all day that makes us want to drop food all over the place, transforming the campus into a giant NestTown Buffet.

 

We can only wonder what made these harmlessly hungry birds turn into organized criminal birds, but one thing is clear: these days, those Seagulls of the Creek are not just plotting hunting strategies.

 

I remember vividly my first encounter with these creatures. It was a cold, dark day. The student parking lot was mostly empty. I made my way to the car, but my driver hadn't arrived yet. My driver had been busy running errands for our family.

 

So there I was, faced with the prospect of waiting alone in the tranquil parking lot. Something was in the air that day, something as thick as the clouds of Seagulls overhead.

 

I made eye contact with one of them - the leader of them all, it seemed. We both knew that it was useless to pretend to be friends. Some individuals are simply not meant to be allies. This bird and I were simply not two birds of a feather.

 

Anyway, this moment abruptly came to halt by my driver showing up before any violence could be sparked. But it was not over.

 

It wasn't long before I started noticing odd things going on around the perimeters of my house. On my front porch, right outside my door, a small, black spy-bird was perched, keeping watch of all activity 24/7. It was not a Seagull - Seagulls always have the "lesser birds" do their dirty work.

 

I fully knew that whenever I was directly on my front porch, I was a sitting duck for all kinds of gruesome pecking.

 

Then, one fateful day, the bird was gone. I opened up my front door and slammed it again, as I always did, hoping to scare away the bird with the noise and vibration, but I heard nothing. I peeked my head outside and saw that it was true. Was my aggressor gone forever?

 

I went about mowing the lawn, pretending I was not at all mystified by the suddenly bird-less situation.

 

Then, my eye caught hold of a zooming dash of black, like a winged bullet, soar past me, missing me by inches. I was shaken, but I thought it could not possibly be true. After all, who ever heard of a kamikaze blue jay?

 

But a second later, another bird dashed past me, this time even closer than the other bird. Before long, there were a dozen bird-missles, armed with a freshly sharpened beak and ready to attack. I knew what I had to do. I searched for the nearest baseball bat.

 

But before I had time to find one, I ran inside the house, waving my arms about and screaming.

 

I haven't heard from any of those birds again, but the whole experience has made me come to one conclusion: Turkeys needn't fear this holiday season - the highlight of my Thanksgiving dinner this year is going to involve a few high-profile members of that infamous flock of organized crime: the Seagulls of the Creek.