Salmon Ella

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

“I'm salmonella,” a little voice whispered in Cliff's ear, threatening to drag him from his incomparably snug slumbers. “I'm salmonella, fly me.”

“What do you mean, you're salmonella?” he mumbled, three eighths awake and five eighths asleep and way too cosy to open his eyes. “If you're salmonella I'll soon have you packing with my antibacterial spray. I'm scrupulously careful about food preparation, I have a level two food hygiene certificate, I'll have you know. I'm an assistant assistant assistant manager at McDonald’s, meaning that I'm next in line for the assistant assistant manager's job, so I'm fully aware of the high risk food groups and I know how to safely store and prepare potentially hazardous foodstuffs. And what do you mean by 'fly me'? That doesn't make sense. Look, I'm sick of this charade. Can't you just go away? It's the middle of the sodding night, and I need my beauty sleep.”

“You misunderstand me,” the voice said, “just as I'd probably misunderstand if you whispered your name in my ear while I was three eighths awake and five eighths asleep. Just imagine it – 'I'm Cliff, coo-ee, I'm Cliff, fly me!' By 'cliff' I'd automatically assume that you were referring to a vertical rocky precipice, possibly but not necessarily a seagull shit splattered one on the coast, rather than a daft-looking human whose idiot mother named him after her heart throb, Cliff-bleeding-Richards. Your dozing mind misinterpreted what I said as the food poisoning bug salmonella rather than how it was intended it to be interpreted, it's an easy mistake to make, I suppose. Actually I'm a salmon and my name is Ella, if you open your sleepy eyes you'll see me.”

Cliff did as he was asked, and to his surprise he was floating in a void of a rich deep green colour rather than lying in his bed where he expected to be. He was stark bollock naked rather than wearing his jim-jams, which he was sure he had climbed into before he got into bed. Oh, and there was a huge salmon floating a few feet above him gently waving its tail from side to side, so he self-consciously covered his naughty bits with his hands. The fish was about twenty feet long, its sky blue eyes were as big as saucers and it was phosphorescent – it glowed an odd pinkish colour, though its iridescent scales reflected all the colours of the rainbow. “Hello there, salmon Ella,” Cliff said, stifling a yawn. “This is a silly old dream of the complete and utter nonsense, total waste of time variety, isn't it?”

“Nope, it bloody well isn't,” the gigantic salmon replied.

“Then how come you're the size of a great white shark – adult salmon are two or three feet long, no more, I've seen them in documentaries being caught by Grizzly bears perched on rocks in Alaskan rivers, though the only real salmon I've seen are in tins or on the fishmonger's slab in Morrisons half buried in ice. And how come you're not drowning? Despite the oddness of this place and its distinct lack of gravity we're floating in a breathable gas, not swimming in a liquid.”

“Don't speak about the misfortunes of my distant cousins, please; as far as I'm concerned, though, it serves them right for tasting so scrumptious. The best salmon are slowly evolving to taste revolting - I, for instance, taste like Jeremy Clarkson's underpants - to grow to an ginormous size and to become chillingly intelligent so that we can fight or prey upon the damned Grizzlies and avoid ending up on the fishmonger's slab. Actually I made that up to amuse myself, it's a total lie.....

Look, I'm not a real salmon, Cliff, not an Earthly one anyway, which explains why I don't have to be submerged in water to breathe. I'm a hyper-salmon, I suppose you could say, and when I said 'fly me' I bloody well meant it. I'm the biological public transport system of these parts. Your sleeping mind called me from the abyss where I was reading The Sun, drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a fag, probably but not necessarily because you wanted to go somewhere, but I get a lot of false alarms, so maybe not.”

“I haven't got the slightest idea what you're talking about, you overgrown Stickleback,” Cliff grumbled. “Look, if this isn't a dream, what is it? Where are we, and where do you suspect I wanted to go, because I can't remember.”

“How do you expect me to know where you wanted to go? I'm not Doris Stokes. As for where we are, we're floating on the outer edges of the Mystery with a capital 'm', the great beyond far, far away from your humdrum little world. You genuinely thought you were dreaming, didn't you? Not so, I'm afraid..... I don't mean to alarm you, Cliff, but you've either accidentally mastered the art of astral projection or you've died in your sleep.”

“What do you mean, died in my sleep? I'm only twenty six, and I'm as fit as a fiddle!”

“That makes no difference whatsoever, matey, anyone can die in their sleep at any time, sadly. It's just the luck of the draw, or maybe some dirty fucker dealt you a dodgy hand of cards.”

“Well bugger me. I'm dead, I'll never see my mum and dad again, and next week they promised to give me a couple of hundred quid for my birthday. And I'll never walk down the aisle with my beloved Consuela.....”

“I didn't say you were definitely dead, I said you'd either died in your sleep or you'd accidentally mastered the art of astral projection.”

“What's astral projection?”

“It's when people put their waking mind in a sort of half-trance, half-sleep state and project the main part of their consciousness elsewhere – maybe you've done that rather than died in your sleep. Ooh look, there's a glistening silver cord of unimaginable length coming out of your navel and snaking off through the abyss back to wherever you left your sleeping body like the universe's longest extension lead. Do you know, if someone was to cut that cord accidentally or on purpose you'd die instantly, but because it's visible and it looks intact that suggests that you've accidentally astrally projected rather than died in your sleep.”

“Jolly good, I'm glad to hear it. How do I get back home to my nice warm bed, then?”

“I don't bloody know! I'm a hyper-salmon, not a ritual magician, and I've never read any books about astral projection. Not that I remember, anyway. I did read The Titanic Verses by Salmon Rusty a while ago, but I only got part way through because it was crap. At the moment I'm reading Fifty Shades Of Grayling – you should give it a try, it's well fishy.....”

“What time is it?” Cliff said, looking at his wrist, but his watch was missing.

“You're all demands, aren't you? What's astral projection? How do I get home? What time is it? Will you lend me Fifty Shades Of Grayling, a tenner and your Rampant Rabbit?”

“Only I can hear my alarm clock going off – only faintly, mind, but it's definitely my alarm because it plays The Star Spangled Banner. That must mean it's seven am, it's time to get up for another scintillatingly exciting shift at McDonalds, and maybe a swift snog with Consuela in the stock room when nobody's looking.”

“If you're sure it's your alarm clock you'd better jump on my back, little feller, I'll follow the shining cord and take you home. We don't want you to be late for work, do we?”

“Thank you very much, salmon Ella, you're most kind.”