Stress had become extinct as I lounged around in my pyjamas until noon in Weston-Super-Mare. Seeing the Full English breakfast arrive, made me feel even more excited than when I completed Sonic & Knuckles as a kid. The sensation of the greasy sausage touching my lips exceeded any kiss I had ever had, except maybe kissing Gigi Hadid, I imagined.
Annoyingly, a tap at the window frustrated me even more than the Nineties Sharp TV in my room. Thrusting the curtains back, a seagull that was fatter than my nans Christmas turkey eyed me up freakishly and bellowed, “I am Gulliver, I picked you. That banger you ate is magically charmed so that you can talk to seagulls. I demand chips now.”
Before I even eriked my bedross in horror, gazillions of seagulls soared into my room like bees finding discounted honey. They thrashed about so frenziedly, I sensed I was in a snow globe, drowning under a blizzard of white feathers. Sweating droplets of terror and confusion, I hustled clumsily out of the hotel and desperately snatched a portion of McDonald’s fries. Despite this, Gulliver roared, sinisterly, “I demanded proper chips,” with even more venom than a hungover Black Widow spider craving caffeine.
Petrified, I scampered frantically up Weston Pier, even faster than after having three Red Bulls. I strove desperately to win a T-Rex cuddly toy in the arcade to scare off the evil, but I had no coppers. Barred for having no facemask, I dashed for my metro car but then slipped down the wet pier concourse like a skier falling down the slalom.
A wailing masseuse tried to save me, but she could only grasp onto my pyjama bottom cord, pulling them off like a cork popping tempestuously off a bottle. Sliding precariously, I descended helplessly into a ball pool, photobombing a nursery class photo. My day was not exactly turning out to be paradise as the security sirens sounded.
Diving into my metro, shaking with terror, I sped off at full throttle. I escaped the security guards as they swore, furiously waiting for the pedestrian crossing to turn green. Arriving shattered at Michaelwood services, I craved at least ten Burger King Whoppers, but still naked, I needed to retrieve my trackies from the boot. Stretching out of the window, balancing precariously like a half-drunken acrobat, I thrust it open with gusto. However, disturbingly the deafening squawks of the hundreds of seagulls inside it hit me like an out-of-tune opera.
Feeling the ground lift away, my Metro was carried by the roof rack back to Weston. In sheer panic, I waved my hands around frantically and knocked my faulty car stereo on. It got jammed playing Chitty Chitty Bang Bang on repeat.
Gloating, Gulliver sneered menacingly, “You have had your chips now.”
Jonathan is a Flash Fiction writer from Solihull, UK. He has had pieces published in the Secret Attic Anthologies, the Bombfire Literacy Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction and an upcoming issue of Corner Bar Magazine. Jonathan was inspired to get into creative writing during lockdown. He especially enjoys writing Funny Fiction and Fantasy Fiction that stretches the imagination and pushes boundaries. Jonathan follows Solihull Moors FC, the soon to be dominant force in English Football.
Photo by Andrew Gustar