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Description
Joel Marks was having a heart attack.

His right hand abandoned the spoon it was holding and instead, clutched at his chest in an effort to pull back the rib bones that seemed to be applying pressure to his heart in very painful ways. His left hand lay flat but tensed on the restaurant table, his fingers soon curling to grasp the white tablecloth. He leaned to his right, dragging the cloth with him as he collapsed onto the floor, causing a raucous crash! as his glass and his porcelain bowl of seagull soup followed suit.

Seagull soup. Joel had entered this restaurant simply because of one thing: the sign out front that read, "Seagull Soup – only $6/bowl!"

When the black letters on the white cardboard had caught his eye, the twinge of anguished remembrance had been minimal. It had been eight years since the day he had boarded that small motorboat with his wife and five other friends to tour a secluded island a good number of miles from their coast.

Besides, his stomach had also growled in response to the words, "Seagull Soup." He then realized that he hadn't yet eaten when it was already almost noon, and that almost broke his vow never to take the act of eating for granted again.

It was a vow that had been made eight years ago. For on that day when Joel had set sail into the boundless ocean, he and his companions had gotten lost at sea. And the trip that should have only taken three hours had turned into a torturous ordeal of three weeks.

Joel Marks couldn't really remember much – the entire experience was a blur of hallucinatory dreams, of sluggish thoughts, and very little in between. He could remember the company's distress when the motorboat's engine failed, and the widespread outrage at his friend Kyle, who had been responsible for getting the boat back into shape; not only had the motor been damaged beyond repair, but Kyle had also failed in getting the boat's radio fixed – a mistake that left their fate in the hands of God.

Joel could also remember leaning against his wife as they lay helplessly on the boat's surface, languid and lethargic after their food supply ran out. With no means to fish, their last hope was to ration out the water among the seven, but his wife was already having trouble staying awake. He could remember praying, as he watched the hypnotizing bobbing of the waves, that they be delivered into the hands of some rescue boat, or onto any civilized coast. One sunrise, his wife was unresponsive to his tug of her shirt. One sunset, the hunger pangs were becoming unbearable. A stray memory of someone feeding him something of an unfamiliar texture and distinct taste was the last of his recollections.

He was aware that the day he had eaten was the day they had been rescued. When he had woken up in the hospital, the first thing he did was ask for his wife.

"She didn't make it," the doctor had told him.

His friends had said that there was a storm on the night before they were found. "Joel, you were completely out – it was pitch black except for when lightning lit the sky, and the boat was shaken like a wild bull…. And in the morning, Celia was gone." Joel had concluded that she must have fallen overboard, and he had cried himself to sleep for days on end. He could not remember that night nor the storm; he could comprehend nothing except the fact that she was gone.

After he had left the hospital, Joel learned how Kyle had saved the others by catching a seagull that had happened to land on the boat. It had been this meal that sustained them long enough to be rescued alive. Though he had thought it absurd that one seagull could nourish six beings, he had accepted it as a miracle.

But that had all been eight years ago.

When he had walked into this restaurant to order a bowl of seagull soup, he was not expecting its flavor to completely contradict his expectations. Nor was he prepared for the onslaught of memories that were instantly released and pieced together, though hazy and corrupted by the delirium starvation had cast upon him eight years ago.

As he lay on the floor, his vision blurring as he gazed at the lights on the ceiling, the last thing Joel Marks heard was a waiter yell, "WHAT DID HE EAT!?"

Description
Joel Marks was having a heart attack.

His right hand abandoned the spoon it was holding and instead, clutched at his chest in an effort to pull back the rib bones that seemed to be applying pressure to his heart in very painful ways. His left hand lay flat but tensed on the restaurant table, his fingers soon curling to grasp the white tablecloth. He leaned to his right, dragging the cloth with him as he collapsed onto the floor, causing a raucous crash! as his glass and his porcelain bowl of seagull soup followed suit.

Seagull soup. Joel had entered this restaurant simply because of one thing: the sign out front that read, "Seagull Soup – only $6/bowl!"

When the black letters on the white cardboard had caught his eye, the twinge of anguished remembrance had been minimal. It had been eight years since the day he had boarded that small motorboat with his wife and five other friends to tour a secluded island a good number of miles from their coast.

Besides, his stomach had also growled in response to the words, "Seagull Soup." He then realized that he hadn't yet eaten when it was already almost noon, and that almost broke his vow never to take the act of eating for granted again.

It was a vow that had been made eight years ago. For on that day when Joel had set sail into the boundless ocean, he and his companions had gotten lost at sea. And the trip that should have only taken three hours had turned into a torturous ordeal of three weeks.

Joel Marks couldn't really remember much – the entire experience was a blur of hallucinatory dreams, of sluggish thoughts, and very little in between. He could remember the company's distress when the motorboat's engine failed, and the widespread outrage at his friend Kyle, who had been responsible for getting the boat back into shape; not only had the motor been damaged beyond repair, but Kyle had also failed in getting the boat's radio fixed – a mistake that left their fate in the hands of God.

Joel could also remember leaning against his wife as they lay helplessly on the boat's surface, languid and lethargic after their food supply ran out. With no means to fish, their last hope was to ration out the water among the seven, but his wife was already having trouble staying awake. He could remember praying, as he watched the hypnotizing bobbing of the waves, that they be delivered into the hands of some rescue boat, or onto any civilized coast. One sunrise, his wife was unresponsive to his tug of her shirt. One sunset, the hunger pangs were becoming unbearable. A stray memory of someone feeding him something of an unfamiliar texture and distinct taste was the last of his recollections.

He was aware that the day he had eaten was the day they had been rescued. When he had woken up in the hospital, the first thing he did was ask for his wife.

"She didn't make it," the doctor had told him.

His friends had said that there was a storm on the night before they were found. "Joel, you were completely out – it was pitch black except for when lightning lit the sky, and the boat was shaken like a wild bull…. And in the morning, Celia was gone." Joel had concluded that she must have fallen overboard, and he had cried himself to sleep for days on end. He could not remember that night nor the storm; he could comprehend nothing except the fact that she was gone.

After he had left the hospital, Joel learned how Kyle had saved the others by catching a seagull that had happened to land on the boat. It had been this meal that sustained them long enough to be rescued alive. Though he had thought it absurd that one seagull could nourish six beings, he had accepted it as a miracle.

But that had all been eight years ago.

When he had walked into this restaurant to order a bowl of seagull soup, he was not expecting its flavor to completely contradict his expectations. Nor was he prepared for the onslaught of memories that were instantly released and pieced together, though hazy and corrupted by the delirium starvation had cast upon him eight years ago.

As he lay on the floor, his vision blurring as he gazed at the lights on the ceiling, the last thing Joel Marks heard was a waiter yell, "WHAT DID HE EAT!?"