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Writer's picturetheperiwinklepelic

the pelican - alice syckle



Every day, I sat on the grey, rocky shore waiting for my mom to return. I was fast asleep after she

tucked me into bed when I woke up to the bumping sounds of her moving things around in her

room. She closed her door with a gentle click, and entered mine with me pretending to be asleep.

She brushed my hair aside and kissed my cheek. “Goodbye.” Another kiss. “Love you.” And the

last one. “Jesus loves you.” She held my face in her palm, I heard a sniffle, and she brushed past

my bed leaving my door open.

When the light downstairs switched off, that was my queue to tiptoe my way downstairs to the

front door she just locked up. I unclicked the chain, closed the door behind me and followed her

close by.

She wore her hair loose, untidy and wildly black with her white nightgown draping her body like

curtains hugging an open window. She carried a pale orange pouch with her down the stony steps

towards the rolling sea. And on the last stone, she took the pouch, wrapped it around her neck,

spread her arms out, feathers plummeting out, and she flew away. I fell on the last step crying out

to her, but she didn’t come back.

Today, I sit by the shore waiting again because there’s nothing behind me to look forward to.

Jobs, parties, and marriages reeked the stench of alcohol and regret, so I only had her and the sea

to save me from the world. But the world had winds that blew violently and people throwing fits

and getting angry with me for existing on my own accord. But sometimes the winds would calm

and brush my arm hair and some people would leave baskets with bread and fish. I ate today’s

breakfast basket scarfing it down like the mother birds would to carry back to their chicks.

The wind is mild and the grey clouds stroll through this salty promenade. I take the strips of

seaweed kelp and shred them thinner to poke through the seashells I gathered in the morning. It

grew more difficult coming up with newer designs for necklaces, but it created itself eventually. I

remember when my mom combed my hair as I fiddled around with the shell necklaces she taught

me to make. She asked me what my dream life would be. “I want wings to fly and to swim”, I

told her. She said it was a very good dream, and put down her comb made of whale bone, and the

spine was carved like one big, white bird with its wings spread out for a distinct handle, and

seashells sprinkled on it. She told me that dreams can slither into reality if we give ourselves the

chance to jump up. I didn’t understand what she meant then, and I still don’t understand now.

At first, I’d set aside a pile of necklaces for her when she came back until I started getting

hungry. I’d put a new necklace in the basket after I finished the bread and fish, and figured that’d

be good enough payment. I lost count how many are out there. My fingers got cold and clammy

again so I put the necklace in the basket and buried my hands in my dark, matted hair; no comb

here and no one here to comb it. I knew she took it with her.

Fatigue suddenly washes over me and I lay down on my stone unconcerned and unbothered by

the waves. Time is a stranger in these places where land meets the sea. Whether an hour passed,

a day or years, I wouldn’t know and did not care to. My eyes open, salt crusted in the corners,

and they open to see a visitor I’ve never seen before.

A pelican. Its appearance is strong, weary but so, so beautiful. Bright white feathers and its pale

orange mouth pouch, full and cramped with things. It’s staring at me, both of us unsure what to do next, and then it hops closer to stand on the rock adjacent to my Waiting Stone. It pecks on

my hair and warbles, but I swat it away. It flaps its wings and picks at my hair again. “Stop that!”

I yell. It flies up in the air and circles above me until it swoops down and grabs the basket. I cry

out for it again, but fail to reach for it in time. For the first time since that night so long ago, I

scream, wail, and cry very salty tears. I’m calling for my mom like my heart hopes to hear her

back, but my body knew better. I continue to cry. My chest hiccups and my throat is sore. I open

my eyes through teared vision and I see the pelican again.

It’s standing on the basket handle a meter away and opens its mouth dropping something in. It

takes the necklace inside and swallows it in its pouch. I reach out for it and it flies away.

I step from my stone to grab the basket, and inside was a comb, made of whale bone with a white

bird carved on the handle.





Alice Syckle (they/them) is a writer based in Los Angeles and an alumni at CSUN. They enjoy writing themes of identity and queer romance through religious motifs and fantastical imagery. They also enjoy exploring such themes through poetry, and willing to experiment through other mediums, such as art and scriptwriting.

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