After many years, Jax returns to Broad, the village of his birth. Standing beside the river, he’s still entranced by the glissandos of the river’s crystal-clear water racing over the polished black stones of the riverbed. In this moment of calm, he escapes history. Looking up, he sees, across the river, the burnt-out shell of the once-grand Broad Hall, and smiles.

Broad began as an isolated settlement in the east of what became England. At first, all land and all assets were held in common. Then, as early as the eleventh century, the Enclosure process began when existing landowners, the aristocracy, and gentry stole the land from the common people and illegally established their entitlement. It was no Garden of Eden, but Capitalism’s venomous serpent poisoned rural life: everything, including people, became a commodity. The injustice of this historic theft from the commoners was not forgotten: an immense latent anger smouldered for generations of the dispossessed.

Jax stands in front of a terrace of farm labourers’ late eighteenth century, brick cottages. The front door of Number 19, once his home, is unlocked. Inside the narrow hall, his every step sends up a cloud of dust. Tearful, he enters the centre of his family’s life, the kitchen; it’s now empty and he’s living his past.
Ma sits in her chair uncontrollably sobbing. Jax soon finds out why: his twin sister, Lucy, has taken her own life. Unbelievably, Ma had lied about his father’s death; he had never existed.
She had arrived in Broad as a young, single girl to work as a scullery maid. The lord of the manor, Quinton, took his entitlement and seduced her.
Go on, Jax said, already dreading what might come next.
Quinton was the father of you and your twin, Lucy. He wouldn’t marry me and bought me off with this cottage.
The shock silenced Jax’s outrage.
Ma sobbed, There’s more. Quinton had a legitimate son, Rupert, your half-brother … he was the father of Lucy’s child.
He fucked Lucy, our half-sister. Did he know who she was? Do the village know?
Ma begs him not to make it worse.
How could it be worse, Jax muttered and stormed out.

Outside, Harry, his best friend, and a large group of men and women, waited. Thought you might want this, Harry said as two well-built young men dragged the protesting Rupert forward.
Into the river, Jax shouted.
Rupert was no match for Jax who forced his half-brother’s head under the water until he stopped struggling.
Go! Run far away, Harry shouted. Justice at last: no more lords in Broad.

Back in the present Jax stands by the river until a hand gently rests on his shoulder.
In alarm, Jax spins, fists up, ready for a fight.
Harry! You’re still alive.
We thought you’d never return, where did you hide?
Ireland; laboured, married into the Garvey family farm beyond Limerick. I see you burnt down the Hall.
No more lords in Broad, Harry said.

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

It’s fiercely hot. George looks up. How come there’s no sun? he asks. How come it’s so bright, so black and white? Sniffing the air his nostrils pick the scent of burning hair. Lines from Coleridge come to him: ‘Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink.’ I’m parched, mouth like Death Valley. Wind roars. Dust swirls. Shielding his eyes, he turns and is almost overwhelmed by a dense mass of rolling tumbleweed. Stepping off the dirt-road onto the raised wooden boardwalk, he shelters under the canopy of a saloon. The word ‘MEGA’ is displayed across its two swing entrance doors. From inside, the sound of an out-of-tune piano thumping out ‘Dixie’ and laughter drown out the wind. What the hell? Why a cowboy movie? He goes in.

The pianist stops playing. The room falls silent. Half-naked cowboys, lying on sunbeds, gawp.
Gary Cooper about? George asks. Silence. Allan Ladd? Clint Eastwood?
What ya want? a voice demands. George turns to see the barman dressed in red; it doesn’t match his vivid orange plump face. George tries to repress his laughter but fails: the man’s hair looks like a combination of fine-spun spiders’ webs and candyfloss.
You hear me, stranger? You as dumb as you look?
George points at the bar counter laden with many glass jugs of water. I was hoping for some water. Looks like you have it to spare.
You’re a foreigner. Git smart while you can. Git outta my saloon.
You laughin’ at me, boy?
As if. I’m called George. What’s your name? George asks as he walks forward.
I’m the sheriff, the barman says pointing at his badge while putting a gun on the counter.
George looks down and is surprised to see he’s armed with a six-gun in a holster. He laughs, Your badge says Tariff, not Sheriff.
Same difference.
Okay. Keep calm, he tells himself. May I please have a drink of water? George asks. I’m dry as a bone. I can pay.
Not for sale; it’s tariffed, the barman says as his hand moves towards his pistol. See all them men lying listening? They’re my deputies and you’re an alien. Try anything and look forward to happy days in Folsom where there ain’t no sing-along with Johnny Cash no more.
Without hesitation George’s first shot from his gun goes straight through the barman’s open mouth and out the back of his head. The bar empties. George looks down at the dead barman. Gobby bastard had it coming, he says. Who does he remind me of?

It takes George some time to realise that the incessant ringing is coming from his telephone alarm and not the timber-framed steeple of the church opposite the saloon. Sleepily, he accepts the video call.

Staring at the screen George gasps, Shit, that’s not possible. It’s the barman! How do you know my number?
Well, George, you’d be doing a whole lot better if you asked, How do I know you killed me in your dream? Tough shit, I live.

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 2025
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.