On Campus
I spy with my little eye, a student late for class.
Sitting on the thick patch of grass outside of the 6-building with its box painted red, I watch him. The student running late almost stumbles; he’s carrying so many bags. I normally see quite a few students like him, they’re always carrying so much. Of course, they’re usually the fresh-out-of-schoolers; I’ve noticed that the adults carry briefcases, or purses, or just a simple backpack to their classes.
There’s a squeal of excitement, which draws my attention away from the almost-stumbling boy. My round, dark eyes focus on a group of women by the entrance to the 1-building with its box painted blue. They are engaged in a flurry of conversation in a foreign language. They must’ve just bumped into one another.
A few obvious English speakers walk by them. Some are discomforted by the unknown sounds, while some remain passive.
The morning chill seems to drop a degree or two lower, and I shiver, before directing my gaze in the direction of the bus stop. It is around this time that a whole stampede of big peoples should be hurrying down the path. True to my thoughts, a diverse cluster of big peoples are soon passing by. Their destinations are mostly their classes, or the library, but I know for certain that some are going to be stopping by the café.
This singular thought is the reason I rise up on my skinny legs and begin scurrying across the brush towards the path.
A few of the big peoples see me and take a few steps away, opting for going around, rather than towards me.
…I don’t let it bother me.
Instead, I carry on in the general direction of the café, catching the tense glances of some of the students sitting at the benches to the left of me. Some of them even glare at me, their whole bodies rigid, as if prepared to attack.
…I don’t let it bother me.
Finally, I reach the little area full of café tables and chairs, where lecturers and students alike are having morning tea in the most civil manner. I tune in to conversations about the arts, about the sciences, about our Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull.
This is my favourite part of the morning, but I make sure to stay out of sight. These big peoples might get angry if they see me.
Hours fly by and I drowsily lift my head to watch a pair of students approaching from the library entrance. As I am standing atop one of the steps, I call to them in greeting.
The students immediately recoil, looks of fear flitting across their faces, before disappearing just as quickly. One of them whispers something to the other, and the two of them walk around me, as so many other students have.
I heave a sigh, which may as well sound like an angry squawk, before sitting back down upon the steps.
There is a rustle at my side and one of the big peoples sits down beside me. Not too close, but not that far, either. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few tasty-looking seeds.
“It was pretty cold weather this morning, but it’s warmer now so I’m not too sure if you’ll still like these.”
I don’t move. Instead, I continue to watch him.
Is this a trick?
The boy - a student or lecturer, I can’t tell - lets the seeds drop from his hand to the stone step beside him. He stands up, and gives me a friendly wave goodbye, before returning to whatever it was he was doing. I wait a few long minutes, half-expecting him to come back at me with a rock. But he doesn’t. I go and pluck a few of the seeds off the step, devouring them ravenously.
How strange.
Perhaps not all big peoples are the same.
The library lights look dazzling bright every late night. When it is open late, that is. The clock is still ticking, drawing closer and closer to nine-thirty and I am still out on The Strand, cosied up on another thick patch of warm grass. I really should be catching myself an insect or two, but the lights are rather distracting. I continue to sit, engrossed by the bright yellow, orange and white lights and at first, I don’t realise that somebody is sitting right behind me. It is only when I heard the sniffles that I move. A female student is sitting on the concrete pathway cutting across the field, and she is sobbing something terrible. Her back is hunched over as she hugs her knees to her chest, and even upon seeing me she doesn’t even flinch. She goes to say something when another student comes up beside her, a male one. For a few seconds they speak at a normal volume, but then the girl is shouting at him and suddenly, he strikes her.
I am screaming along with the girl and I jump away as she hits the grass. Whimpering, she sits up, before unexpectedly smiling. The boy is trembling, and with the briefest of apologies for hurting her, he leaves. The girl, still smiling, turns to me.
“Are you going to leave me too?”
I say nothing in reply to her.
She moves closer, and I scurry as far from her as my skinny legs can take me. I can hear her laughter fading behind me.
Scurrying, scurrying, scurrying.
I find myself in the beautiful garden with the waterfall. The Chinese Garden, I believe it is. Certainly I could find myself some grub here!
I make a sharp left turn at the entrance and almost run straight into one of the big peoples. The much larger woman squeals and reaches down, instinctively grabbing a rock and throwing it at me. I caw in protest: “Ki-ki-ki-ki-ki!” And stretch out my wings, taking flight before resting atop one of the rocks by the mini-waterfall.
I irritably regard the young woman who is now straightening her buzz cut hairstyle and scoffing in disbelief.
“Damn bird,” she says. “Scared the shit out of me.”
“Your fault for being here so late at night”, I think to myself, turning tailfeather to her and swooping down to the grassy area in front of a memorial statue.
I must admit I’m used to it though.
Nobody really likes plovers.
Julia Gomes is an avid reader and writer, naively hoping for her work to be read by millions. As she is studying a Bachelor of Medical Laboratory Science, she believes the course to be a pleasant stepping stone to help fund her big dreams.
