Mrs. Peacock has long red nails. Rat-a-tat-tat on the desk they tap. If you’re naughty, she digs them into your wrists. She has cobweb hair and black spider legs. Every afternoon, when the little hand is on two and the big hand is half way round, we have Story Time. An acorn fell on Chicken Licken’s head and he thought the sky was falling down.

Christopher Parkes sits next to Mrs. Peacock’s spindly legs, on the scratchy carpet. He strokes her shoes. One time, he called her Mummy, and everyone laughed. Christopher’s cheeks turned bright pink and his head wobbled like jelly. Christopher is like me. He doesn’t have any friends.

If you need the toilet, put up your hand and ask. But I don’t because I don’t like to talk. At first, I cross my legs, but then I can’t hold it in anymore. My skirt is sticky and my pants are sopping wet. The yellow puddle on the carpet is warm and smells like Uncle Barry’s stinky socks. When the bell goes at three o’clock and we all stand up, Mrs. Peacock gets very cross. “Which of you children has made this horrible mess?” she shouts. She’s staring at me but I stay quiet. Pretend I’m invisible. I’m good at that.

Run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man. I run home, careful not to step on the cracks. I let myself in through the back door. Mummy and Uncle Barry are on the settee having a nap. On the floor, there are lots of empty beer cans and wine bottles. One. Two. Three. Four.

I fetch a packet of Monster Snacks from the pantry and turn on the telly. First, it’s the cartoons, then The Clangers, then the grown-up news.

It’s getting dark and my tummy is growling. I’m a troll, trolly, troll and I’ll eat you up for my supper. I don’t want to wake up Mummy or Uncle Barry, in case they get cross. Uncle Barry says naughty words. “What’s wrong with the fuckin’ freak? Why won’t she speak?” I heard him say that to Mummy yesterday, when they were in the kitchen. I ran up to my bedroom and hid in my toy cupboard.

I do speak though. I speak to Nanny. When Nanny kisses me, her breath smells of Dolly Mixtures. Her eyes are blue and they crinkle when she laughs. We play shoe shops and dressing up.

I zip up my orange anorak with giraffes, and go out into the night. I don’t remember the way to Nanny’s house. But I’ll know when I get there. There’s a tall, happy flower growing in her garden. It’s called a sunflower.

Jane Salmons

is from Stourbridge in the UK. Her first poetry pamphlet, Enter GHOST, was published by dancing girl press in 2022. Her debut poetry collection, The Quiet Spy, was published by Pindrop Press, also in 2022.

Jane has micro and flash fiction stories published with MacQueen’s Quinterly, The Ekphrastic Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, and in the Ad Hoc Fiction anthologies Dandelion Years and Flash Fiction Festival Five; and forthcoming in The Dribble Drabble Review. Her work has been shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award, and nominated for Best Microfiction 2023 and Best of the Net 2024. Her story Miracle Grow won the Pokrass Prize at the Bath Flash Fiction Festival held in 2022.

Author’s website: https://www.janesalmonspoetry.co.uk

More on the Web: By, About, and Beyond

⚡ The Weightlessness of Love, ekphrastic microfiction by Jane Salmons in MacQueen’s Quinterly (Issue 12, March 2022); nominated by MacQ for the Best Microfiction 2023 anthology.

⚡ Passengers, ekphrastic microfiction by Jane Salmons, in Starry, Starry Night: An ekphrastic anthology inspired by Van Gogh’s masterpiece, published by The Ekphrastic Review (25 February 2022)