The Gulls

The Gulls

Hey lady hey lady hey! Helen, in the elbow crook of the bay, and the boys in the boat crying for her, their voices high and hoarse on the evening air. The tide mouths the toes of her trainers and she ignores them, like they're more of the cawing seagulls, one and the same. Hey baby, hey! They're coming closer aren't they, steering inland, the beer slopping in them, threatening to spill out. The ends of their cigarettes bright as little suns. They go to war tomorrow, they sing. They wear their camouflage already. Give us a kiss lady, give us a taste, go on. Come aboard for our last night of freedom. She rests her foot on the side of the boat as it reaches her. Smiles, because it costs nothing, no other reason. Pushes them back out onto the dark sea.


fiction by
Abi Hynes

image by
Zowie Green