In which Sea Shell City's giant man-eating clam teaches a lesson about mortality

max pearson

Somewhere in Cheboygan we're eating french fries 

and throwing them at seagulls. They catch them in midair 

and fly away to somewhere in the asteroid belt, where I hear 

they make their nests in the winter. If you would realign 

your telescope, you could see them, near 10 Hygiea,

but you're too busy trying to see the dark side of the moon. 

You tell me that there was water up there once, 

plenty of it, but there's not enough for you now. Not enough 

for an ocean, where a giant man-eating clam can latch 

onto legs and pull a good man down. Was it true that your dad

died wearing the same shirt you are now, with the Pink Floyd

prism and the hole in the sleeve? Was it returned to you

after the funeral, or did you have to scrape it off his salty corpse? 

I heard that the clam's handlers gave you a complimentary 

seashell seagull sculpture for your troubles. Turn him 

towards 10 Hygiea, let that poor simulacrum see what's possible. 

Max Pearson is a junior creative writer at Interlochen Arts Academy. They have received regional recognition for their work from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, and their work has previously appeared in The Red Wheelbarrow. They enjoy sour candy and perusing the work of Franz Kafka, and think that long walks on the beach are overrated.