The Gull and
the Crab
—
Calvin Cummings
A LOST SEAGULL FLEW TOO far inland. She smelled rotting crab and thought she was flying towards the rock pools, but ended up at a crab shack, miles from the beach, on a dirty street block that also housed a Chinese restaurant, an abandoned tax office, and a group of teenagers selling crack and heroin.
She landed on the dumpster and peered inside.
Big, clear plastic bags, each filled with corn cobs, crab shells, plastic utensils, beer cans.
One of the bags stirred. She cocked her head, floated down, pecked at it. A mostly whole shell, orange from boiling, wriggled its cracked back and splintered claws around to look at her through the translucent film.
“Kill me,” the crab said.
“You’re already dead,” the seagull said.
“Oh,” the crab said.
She pecked again at the plastic, tearing a small hole.
“Do you know where I’m going?” he asked.
She stuck her beak inside the hole, threaded it through to his piecemeal body, and made the hole wider until the edges furled and she could pick off the remaining threads of his flesh.
He asked, “Please, do you know what comes after?”
The seagull stopped eating.
“You’re going where we all go,” she said. “And no.”
Another plastic bag came flying into the dumpster, eclipsing the sun before crashing down beside the seagull, causing her to jump and flap her wings and screech. No sooner had the sunlight returned than it disappeared again, as the bag thrower flipped over the dumpster’s cover.
They waited in the darkness as street noises wafted in through the cracks between the covers. A metal machine and its engine squeaked and hissed and groaned its way down the street, possibly towards them.
“I guess we’re about to find out,” they said in unison. •
![]()
Calvin Cummings is a writer from Oak Ridge, Tennessee. His work appears in Volume Ø, Soft Union, Blue Arrangements, SARKA, Haskell Industries, and elsewhere.
Website | Instagram | Twitter
She landed on the dumpster and peered inside.
Big, clear plastic bags, each filled with corn cobs, crab shells, plastic utensils, beer cans.
One of the bags stirred. She cocked her head, floated down, pecked at it. A mostly whole shell, orange from boiling, wriggled its cracked back and splintered claws around to look at her through the translucent film.
“Kill me,” the crab said.
“You’re already dead,” the seagull said.
“Oh,” the crab said.
She pecked again at the plastic, tearing a small hole.
“Do you know where I’m going?” he asked.
She stuck her beak inside the hole, threaded it through to his piecemeal body, and made the hole wider until the edges furled and she could pick off the remaining threads of his flesh.
He asked, “Please, do you know what comes after?”
The seagull stopped eating.
“You’re going where we all go,” she said. “And no.”
Another plastic bag came flying into the dumpster, eclipsing the sun before crashing down beside the seagull, causing her to jump and flap her wings and screech. No sooner had the sunlight returned than it disappeared again, as the bag thrower flipped over the dumpster’s cover.
They waited in the darkness as street noises wafted in through the cracks between the covers. A metal machine and its engine squeaked and hissed and groaned its way down the street, possibly towards them.
“I guess we’re about to find out,” they said in unison. •
Calvin Cummings is a writer from Oak Ridge, Tennessee. His work appears in Volume Ø, Soft Union, Blue Arrangements, SARKA, Haskell Industries, and elsewhere.
Website | Instagram | Twitter