Monthly Archives: December 2022

A Bowl of Olives

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Arman, a Syrian refugee, spends his eightieth birthday in a tent in ‘The Jungle’, in Calais. He sits alone on a white plastic garden chair next to a suitcase wrapped in cellophane. It’s freezing cold, but his anger sustains him as he asks himself his perennial question, How could the enemy destroy acres and acres of olive groves in Idlib province, attacking our culture and pushing us into starvation? 

I should be pleased. I am pleased, but I’m too old to be a refugee, an asylum seeker, or a survivor. If the Russian air strikes had been successful, I would be dead, should be dead, buried in the rubble that was our family home. I can still taste the concrete dust in my mouth, feel it in my eyes that even my tears cannot wash away. What is the purpose of my survival? My olive trees are destroyed. Only my granddaughter, Saabirah, lives and she is with child. I have nothing but my love for her and the child to come. There was no one else alive to protect her. 

Does my hatred of Assam and Putin harm me more than them? I’m filled with sadness or, maybe, a sort of envy, that the West sees fit to fight Putin in the Ukraine but has done nothing to save Syria from the monsters of war, the barbarians, the murderers of children, the destroyers of the unborn, with their bombs, chemical weapons and terror. Envy? The thought disgusts me. 

Even as I sit here I can hear village women wailing above the freezing wind outside. Hear the children of neighbours calling out my grandson’s name, Kaashif. The frantic digging of shovels, voices from beyond the grave. They said it was a miracle that there wasn’t a mark on me; the mark is forever in my heart and for that there is no sticking plaster. They found Kaashif’s body; he was only thirteen, just becoming a man. All the time I was washing his dead body, I expected him to wake up and tell me it was all a game. It was no game. I came here to protect Saabirah and the baby. The traffickers took my money and here we are. 
You’ll be safe in England.
Is that you, Kaashif?
Yes, Grandpa. Do you remember when we picked olives and a man came and photographed us? I held the olives and leaves in a wooden bowl and you cupped my hands in your big hands. When the photographer showed us the picture on his camera, Mum was cross because our hands were so dirty. You laughed and asked how could they be clean; we are peasants. The photograph was beautiful.
Arman wipes tears from his eyes and gasps. On the upended suitcase there’s the same wooden bowl full of olives and leaves. He rubs his eyes. 
Happy birthday, Grandpa. 
Is it real?
It will always be real to you.
Where are you? Arman asks.
Unseen, but always near you. 

I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More

© Phil Cosker 2022
Phil Cosker has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved; no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.

Cabbage

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In pouring rain, Johno Jackson looks at the 1930s semi where he’ll lodge until he finds a flat. Standing in the porch, he dumps his dripping backpack and rings the doorbell. The intense smell of boiling cabbage hits him as the door opens; stepping back in shock, he unnecessarily asks, Is that cabbage I can smell?
It’s your dinner, Valerie replies. Are you my new lodger?
Yes, I’m Johno, and you’re Mrs Valerie Alsop?
Val, please.
Can I leave my coat out here to dry?
I didn’t expect you to have such long hair.
Is that a problem?
Only if you use all the hot water washing it clean.
I don’t wash my dreadlocks.
But you’re not coloured.
I’m like you, coloured white.
Come in and I’ll show you the room.

Here it is, she announces, opening a door.
Wow, Johno says, I wasn’t expecting a double bed.
Every man needs a double bed, Valerie says.
To his embarrassment, Johno finds himself flushing red as he sees a folded nightdress on one of the pillows. Jesus, he thinks, she’s propositioning me, but says, I’ll need a desk to work on.
The dining room is all yours. It’s just the two of us since my husband left. Tea’s at half-five. Just follow your nose and you’ll find the kitchen.
Just one thing, Johno says, is that your nightie on the bed?
Yes. Do you mind sharing?
It’s not what I was expecting.

In the kitchen the smell of cabbage is at its most intense. Johno struggles not to retch.
You look pale, Johno, it’ll be the excitement. Sit yourself down and pour us a glass of Blue Nun.
The glass of Blue Nun doesn’t help his nausea. 
Here we are, Valerie says. 
Johno stares at the plate of over-cooked potatoes, a pile of soggy pale cabbage and a grey slab of meat floating in a muddy puddle of gravy. He rushes out of the back door and vomits. 
When he’s finally back inside, Valerie asks, Are you ill? 
I’m vegetarian and the smell of cabbage makes me vomit. No offence, but your bed’s not for me. It’s the cabbage that’s to blame.

As Johno pulls on his still wet coat in the porch Valerie sobs in the kitchen. 

It’s almost dark and raining so hard that the road, beneath streetlights, appears as a fast moving river. In a terrace of once grand Georgian residences, one has been turned into The Scrumpy House. A dishevelled man of indeterminate age totters out and stands on the top of the stone steps leading down to the road. Looking perplexed, he smiles, nods, gives Johno the thumbs up, and dives onto the road, as Johno shouts, No! Cars screech and skid to a halt. A greengrocer’s lorry, swerving to avoid hitting a spinning car, sheds boxes of cabbages over the unconscious man. 

The man’s still breathing as Johno throws cabbages aside. Shit, Johno thinks, if you survive this, you’ll be a cabbage yourself. Fucking cabbages.

I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More

© Phil Cosker 2022
Phil Cosker has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved; no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.

Perseverance Terrace

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 ‘Wildwood’, the last house standing in Perseverance Terrace, is a solitary gravestone in a desert of broken bricks, rubble, dumped rubbish and smouldering bonfires and has become refuge to generations of ghosts who were born, lived and died there. 

Inside Wildwood, the kitchen is crammed full of ghosts; had they needed to breathe, many would have suffocated. Erasmus, their elected leader, explains, The only reason our home has survived this long is because of superstition. It only needs one man not to fear the retribution of ghosts and we’re gone, our safe haven lost. 

Lester Field, a mortal, enters the kitchen. 
Invader! The ghosts cry out. Alien! 
I’m no alien. I’m just a man looking for help, Lester says. Goodness, there are hundreds of you in here.
Who are you? Erasmus asks. How can you see us?
I’m Lester Field and blessed, or cursed, with the gift of seeing your world as well as mine. 
Why are you here?
I need a ghost. 
Why? Erasmus asks.
To take revenge. I discovered that Thacker, leader of the Council, received huge backhanders for selling off public land. I tried to get it on the news. I got fired. But I have an idea. Thacker’s son, Henry, died in mysterious circumstances, I want to find Henry’s ghost and the truth about his death. Can any of you help me find him? Lester asks.
The ghosts shimmer and groan.
Erasmus explains, They’re afraid that if they leave here there’ll be no coming back and they’ll be lost forever in time and space.
Are they right? Lester asks.
I don’t know. Do you think you can get Thacker to stop demolishing Wildwood?
I do.
Then I’ll come with you, Erasmus says.

Thacker, at home, sits in his snug sipping whisky when the door bangs open and his wife bursts in. It’s our boy, she cries. Henry’s back. 
You’re off your head, Lucy. He’s dead. 
His ghost isn’t, Lester says from the doorway. He’s told me the truth about his abuse and how he died.
What? Lucy demands. What abuse?
Henry enters.
What did your father do to you, darling? 
It’s a trick; there’s no such thing as ghosts, Thacker protests.
I’m here, aren’t I? Henry asks. You stop knocking down Wildwood, or I’ll tell Mum how I died.
You little shit! Thacker says.
And pay me the salary you owe me, Lester adds. Or I’ll tell the police.

It’s early morning as Lester, Erasmus and Henry cross the wasteland.
A giant wrecking ball swings from a crane and thunders into Wildwood. Thacker, standing by his Mercedes, smiles as he watches the demolition.
He lied, Henry says.
The ghosts erupt from Wildwood flying like wasps flung hither and thither in a maelstrom of roaring anger engulfing Thacker. His cries of agony pierce the eerie silence of the wasteland. The wailing ghosts vanish into the sky. Thacker lies dead on Wildwood’s threshold. 
Erasmus grips Lester’s hand. Something of a Pyrrhic Victory, I think.

I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More

© Phil Cosker 2022
Phil Cosker has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved; no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.