1. Joined at the hip by a band of flesh, we are of one blood. One of us thinks; the other takes the first step. We blaze on stage at the Theatre de la Gaîté wearing our mandarin silk dress and ostrich feather hats. We dance, play violin duets, fall in love, share a husband and suckle our son. Salacious chatter. Legal trouble. One of us catches influenza. We tremble as we dream of a Ouija board; a telegram that says, operate at once.
   
   
2. Naked and half-blind you crawl through gloop towards a dim light. Above you, in a blood-red sky, a flock of flying monkeys screeches past. Fly, my pretties, fly. Slithering behind you, a monstrous eel with hot mealy breath. You keep crawling. On and on towards a giant Petri dish, where suspended in a bed of agar jelly, a pair of miniature hearts beat wildly. You cup your hand to cradle them in your palm. The candle flickers and extinguishes.
   
   
3. Little aliens spooning in the dark. They speak without words; pulse to the beat of each other’s heart. Hands held, arms tightly wrapped, they practise the “Rescue Hug”. Teeny, translucent fingers stroke the nape of a neck. Sometimes, fists clenched, they punch, kick and wrestle for space. Before they take their first breath, they have learned their own secret language.
   
   
4. “Congratulations. It’s a bonny baby boy.” The midwife lowers the squealing scarlet creature onto Marion’s breast. From beneath the embroidered pillowcase, Marion takes her best white handkerchief and gently wipes the gunk from her baby’s downy face. She presses her nipple, as burgundy and ripe as a blackberry, to his greedy lips. His squeal becomes a whimper. Marion sinks back on the bed, begins to float in a golden haze, but six minutes later, a quiver, a quake, an urgent rush. “Push!” the midwife says. “You’re crownin’ again.”
   
   
5. Tonight, bathed in lamp light, two strangers will sit at opposite tables at the terrace café. They will drink in the accordion music, clink of glasses, easy laughter. One will order a glass of wine, rustic bread, a few olives. The other will be grateful for small pleasures—the waiter’s crisp white apron, his welcoming smile; the kiss of warm air caressing her calves. Tonight, as the strangers’ violet eyes lock, each will recall two tiny girls in gingham smocks holding hands and crying. A horse and a cart. One bundled onto the back, labelled and parcelled like luggage. One left behind on the furrowed track. The echo of hooves, swirling dust and a lifetime of longing.
   
   

Bio: Jane Salmons