Jane Salmons

​ 
Trail Blazer

Two thousand miles done.  The old man has dangled his legs over the ledge of McAfee Knob, feasted his clouded blue eyes on the flaming red sunset, clambered the Dragon’s Tooth pathway to the snowy peak of Cove Mount, looked down from Clingman’s Dome on a dizzying ocean of mountains, the treetops rolling beneath him like waves.  

He has camped in bunkhouses with skiers, hikers, hunters.  Slugged whiskey and traded tales with young men a quarter his age, of his lifelong adventures – trekking the Camino de Santiago, hiking the Te Araroa, scaling the Great Himalayas.  Now, with less than two hundred miles to go to vanquish the Appalachian Trail, the old man is tired. 

He has lost sight of the bright blue arrows painted on the bark of the luminous white pines.  A foolish thing to do at dusk, as any rambler knows, but so, so tired, the old man sits down to rest at the foot of a tree.  The pack of the trunk is comforting against his aching spine.  Before long, he drifts off.  

In a pool of moonlight, a family of black bears ambles by.  One by one, they sniff the old man - a streak of gristle, a gut full of indigestion - then pad on.  Silently, into the cold, clear night.

**
​
Spread Your Wings

Hilda flies over strings of grey washing.  Sweeps over factories, scrapyards, towers of twisted mangles and rusty stoves.  She swoops over buttercup meadows dotted with toy cows.  The breeze carries Hilda high over the white cliffs of Dover.  Below the English Channel churns and ploughs, brown as a field.  

She floats into Paris.  The Eiffel Tower a bracelet charm; the Sacré Coeur an iridescent pearl; the sparkling Seine a diamanté chain.  She flutters above a pavement café, where a pair of mademoiselle sip haughty green cocktails, name-drop authors Hilda has never heard of.  Colette, Anaïs Nin, Simone de Beauvoir.  

The mademoiselle point and laugh at Hilda’s frizzy perm, cheap jewellery, nylon gown with hem come down.  

Hilda lands with a thud on the hard cold cobbles.  Dream wings battered.

**

Diving Platform
 
The dusk breeze ruffling the frill of my swimsuit, my fingers tingling around a rickety rail, all around the sky reeling and swirling like a cauldron, a murder of crows calling from the darkening trees, my mouth filling with damp roots and bracken, and down, down below the trembling black water, a tangle of reeds twisting and writhing like Medusa’s hair.
 
**

Moving 
 
All that is left are a few cardboard boxes.  

“Not a bad day’s work,” he says.  

From the pocket of his corduroy slacks, he pulls his Swiss Army knife.  Liver-spotted hands trembling, he slices an apple in two, hands the larger half to his wife.  She smiles but says nothing.  

They sit next to each other, beneath the ash tree, on their golden anniversary bench – a gift from the family.  Through the branches, the evening light mottles the lawn with amber splashes.  White cabbage butterflies flit like confetti over the neat herbaceous borders.  The garden has never looked so lovely, but it is too large for them to manage these days.  As is the house. 

She thinks of all those years ago, when they planted the saplings, seeded the lawn, the sweat and toil it took her husband to dig the ornamental pond.  How quickly time has passed.   The children grown up so rapidly.  The street now full of newlyweds, people they barely know, some expecting their first child.  

“Did you remember to cancel the boiler insurance?” he says.

She nods.  Recalls their coal fire; flames dancing.  How they’d sit in their dressing gowns, sipping wine and laughing.  She’ll miss their home.  All their wonderful memories.  The dreams and plans they shared when they first married.  That sense of embarking on an endless journey together.  

And yet, she can’t escape the feeling that over the years something elusive has drawn steadily away from her.  Why is it, she thinks, that we didn’t – that nothing had – that whatever we -?  

**

Urban Pest
 
When Xander was satisfied that no one was looking, he vacuumed up a plump mauve pigeon.  He watched with glee, as the bird’s glassy pink eyes, sleek plumage, red taloned feet, disappeared down the gaping gullet of the Glutton 3.

Xander began whistling The Children of Piraeus. It was a bright sunny morning on Syntagma Square.  Bustling commuters flew out from the Metro; tourists perched for selfies on the edge of the sparkling fountains; a busker warbled away on the steps of the Parliament.  
 
In the distance, high on its rocky hill stood the Parthenon.  Glowing pink.   Magnificent, Xander thought.  He took great pride in his city and in his work.  If only the marble slabs of the Square weren't splattered with globs of emerald shit.

He set off on his rounds, dragging behind him like a faithful hound, the Glutton 3.  This model was phenomenal: ultra-lightweight carbon fibre suction pipe; two hundred and forty litre storage space; steerable front wheel for optimum manoeuvrability.  Cigarette butts, tin cans, plastic bottles, biodegradable waste – everything consumed and contained odour-free within its voluminous belly.   A little man, with little to show for his life, master of the Glutton 3, Xander  felt like Zeus.
  
Man and machine sauntered towards the perimeter of the Square, sucking up Styrofoam coffee cups, half-eaten baklava, discarded newspapers.  On the way, Xander surreptitiously scattered a handful of birdseed.  “Here, pretty birdies,” he cooed.  Soon, a throng of blue-grey pigeons gathered, greedily pecking the ground. 
 
Wh...oosh thump. Wh...oosh thump. Wh...oosh thump.  Clunk! Clunk!   

Five foul vermin in one fell swoop.  The Glutton 3 was hungry!  A few stray feathers fluttered to the ground.

Between the leaves of a fragrant orange tree, came a rustle and flap. Without hesitation, Xander swung the suction pipe upwards into the branches and exterminated three more flying rats.  

But then, there was a splutter, whir, loss of suction.  The smell of burning.  Xander pressed the Glutton 3’s emergency stop button; opened up its heaving drum to investigate.  A ginormous pigeon emerged.  It beat its golden wings, opened its massive beak and with a triumphant gulp, devoured Xander whole.
 
**

Dracula Attends the Whitby Goth Weekend

For a joke, he checked in to the Stoker Hotel as Count Wampyr.  He smoothed his paunch, swished his cloak, flashed a fangy grin at the ravishing redheaded receptionist.  She looked bored.  Slightly repulsed, he thought.  Perhaps he’d some spinach lodged between his teeth?  Lately he’d lost his appetite for meat and turned vegan.  He spent a miserable afternoon at the Bizarre Bazaar, drifting between stalls selling boot chains, studded codpieces, steampunk goggles.  He felt so passé.  Invisible.  At dusk, he floated past the Pavilion, where hordes of Goths queued for headliners, Inkubus Sukkubus.  Alone, he lay down in the Abbey ruins.  Communed with the bats.  

**

Moonbeam and Lightning
 
By the time we are cruising at thirty thousand feet, towards the Strait of Gibraltar, our new flight attendant, Cathy, has told me her entire life story.  

I’m Nelly Dean, by the way.  Longest serving cabin crew at Go Lucky Air.  I like to take newbies under my wing because I’m easy to talk to, folk say.  

Cathy tells me that like me, she grew up on the Yorkshire Moors.  That after her parents died, her brother was left in charge.  “Hindley’s a reet bastard,” she says.  “He likes a drink.  Got worse, after ‘is missus died.”  Dark grey eyes glinting like flint, her hobbies, she says, are outdoorsy things.  Bareback horse riding.  Wild camping.  Geocaching, whatever that is.  

Apparently, she’s engaged to a fella called Ed.  “Steady Eddy, I call ‘im,” she says, grimacing.   She shoves her phone under my nose and shows me a photo.  Yellow hair, pale face, waxed jacket and cravat.  Stood with a chocolate Labrador in front of a Range Rover. Bit of a numpty, I think, but say nowt.  I’m not the type to judge.   

Cathy says, “I want to see the world, shake things up, get some ‘eadspace, like.”
It’s on our descent, when we’re flogging Duty Free, that I notice the sprig of mauve heather pinned to her scarf, the hare’s foot gripped in her hand, her look of wild glee, as we hit a pocket of turbulence, and the trolley goes flying.

Captain Heathcliff comes over the tannoy.  “Passengers and cabin crew, return to your seats.  And fasten your safety belts.”  

Flights are never boring, when ‘Hothead’ Heathcliff is piloting.  None of us cabin crew will forget the time, when for a bet, he landed a Boeing 747 on the M60 motorway.   He paid hell for that. 

Cathy refuses to buckle up her seatbelt.  Instead, as if in prayer, she sinks to her knees, presses her face to the porthole, where outside the wind howls, clouds swirl, pebble-sized hailstones pelt against pane.  We tailspin and dive.  Men, women, children shriek like monkeys, as we plummet at breakneck speed towards the jagged peaks of the Rock of Gibraltar.  

“Oh Lord. This is it,” I think, but then, incredibly, the plane banks, turns sharp left and soars.

“Just a bit of bumpy air,” Captain Heathcliff says, a note of hysteria in his voice.“We’ll be arriving in Gibraltar in a few minutes.”

Cathy turns from the window.  Her face is glowing.  “Ee, Nelly,” she says.  “Tha’ Captain Heathcliff’s something else.”  And with a laugh, she unfurls her hand.  In her palm is a bloodied squish of tiny bones, broken claws, tangled fur. 

**
Note:  The title is from Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte, 1847

**

Jane Salmons lives in Shropshire in the UK.  Her poetry collection The Quiet Spy about Holocaust hero Frank Foley, was published by Pindrop Press in 2022.  Her poetry pamphlet The Bridge is forthcoming with Offa's Press.  A recipient of Arts Council England funding, Jane also writes flash and microfiction.  After teaching for nearly thirty years, she now works part time as an international teacher trainer.  Read more at janesalmonspoetry.co.uk