Category Archives: 500 Word short stories

A Last Resort

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The Leader stands on a wooden platform in Trafalgar Square. She raises her right arm in salute. The huge crowd roar their approval. All the paper and vellum originals and their copies of legislative documents relating to human rights in England, since time immemorial, are piled so high that the mound almost reaches Nelson’s feet on his column. Her voice booms through loudspeakers; the crowd chant her command; burn them. Pigeons flee their roosts. Mounted Hussars, in full dress uniform, carrying flaming torches move forward and simultaneously light the pyre. Tinder dry documents erupt into flames. Horses rear in terror. Smoke billows. The crowd cheers. Bright twisters of burning sparks are caught by the wind and escape into the night sky. Big Ben chimes. I had a dream, she shouts. Today is a great day for the pure English race. Today is a bad day for cultural Marxism and its lawyers, judges, meddlesome artists and do-gooders. Today is a good day for freedom from laws that hamper the rights of the English race. Free at last from perverse laws that protect homosexuals, transgenders, socialist pariahs and the invading hordes of aliens seeking asylum in their stinking sinking boats. Free at last! I say, Free at Last! Sink the boats! the crowd chant. Sink the boats! 

In her bedroom in the safe house, a gentle hand falls on her shoulder. Reluctantly she awakens from her dream. Who are you? What do you want?
It’s nearly time to go, Dallas.
Not going to Dallas, she says, struggling to wake from her euphoria.
Of course not, you’re going on a holiday, a resort, at the public’s expense.
What’s this Dallas thing?
The public don’t know Dallas is your nickname; your parents christened you after Sue Ellen from the TV series, Dallas.
It’s disrespectful. 
Respect must be earned.
What’s that supposed to mean?
You may be a bigot, but you’re not thick.
Who the hell are you?
Buchan, from MI5.
Who gave you the authority?
You did, by default. 
To do what?
When disaster looms and serious mistakes need to be fixed on the quiet, I’m called. 
Bloody hell! You’re that Buchan?
Yes. Look, here’s a surprise.
Enoch! Enoch Powell. You look awful with that shrink-wrapped skull. 
I may be long dead, but my ghost is full of virulent racism. 
I’m not a racist.
Nor was Hitler, Powell laughs.
I can’t be. My parents are of colour, Asian, and I’m a Buddhist.
You’ve done more to promote racism than I ever managed, Powell sighs. 
Your ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech was positively Shakespearean. 
Words are nothing. You’re deporting your own kind to Africa. Now, that’s inspired!
Time to get your flight, Dallas, Buchan smiles.
Where to?
Rwanda, Kigali. As you know the camp is out of town.
Not going there.
It’s your last resort, Buchan chuckles. Enoch is going with you on your hols.
Please, not with him, she wails. 
He’ll be your constant companion spewing bile.
I’ve been misunderstood, Dallas pleads.

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 2023
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.

A House

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In 1906 the religious order of Franciscans finished building a new house for their order and moved in. They called it Greyfriars. It was spartan and remained so. By the 1920s the house was fed up with the monks’ ideal of poverty; it was always cold and in disrepair. 

In 1940 the house was commandeered by officers of the Black Watch. When the soldiers left in 1949, the house had learnt all it never wanted to know about debauchery in all its forms. 

Greyfriars thought its days were numbered until 1956 when a couple bought it for a song and its happy days began. The new owners were Jackson and Elizabeth; known to all as Izzy and Jacks. 

As Izzy’s health deteriorated, Greyfriars was no longer spick and span. When dust clouds blew in sudden draughts, Jacks heard Izzy bellowing, For fuck’s sake, Jacks, get the bloody hoover, will you? He didn’t bother with cleaning but concentrated on caring for Izzy, to the exclusion of all else. Now, once the home of laughter and the convivial visits of many friends, are no longer, Greyfriars is angry. Not only is the house dirty but its impatient for the joy of human companionship. It no longer finds consolation in happy memories of the love between Jacks and Izzy that blossomed within the safety of its walls. 

In the early days of Izzy and Jacks’ life in Greyfriars it fell in love with her finding her beautiful. It felt lucky that it was furnished with invisible access to her body in various states of dress and undress. It never watched as she and Jacks made love; that was taking privilege too far. More than this, it couldn’t bear to watch them in bed together; that made it fearsomely jealous. But the cause of its love was not her body but her mind and vivacity.

When darkness in the house was at its worst, and loneliness crushed him, Jacks ventured into the garden. He knew he could escape Greyfriars, whilst it couldn’t escape itself, except by demolition. He shudders at the thought; he loves the place as does Izzy. Little did he know of Greyfriars’ passion.

Finally, as an elderly lady, she has a dangerous heart condition; in an emergency, Jacks places a tiny tablet under her tongue to save her life. One night, when Jacks is drunk, he can’t find the bottle in time. Izzy dies in his arms in their bedroom. Enraged, the house sees her death as murder. Greyfriars takes revenge. It locks the bedroom door with Jacks trapped inside, who, hysterical at Izzy’s death struggles to escape, frantic like a moth in a jar. The house makes every door and window impassible. 

Belatedly, neighbours raise the alarm; there’s been no sign of life in Greyfriars for weeks. Greyfriars opens its doors to the police who find Jacks’ and Izzy’s dead bodies. Greyfriars gives up the ghosts of those it has loved and lost. 

Six months later it’s a ruined corpse

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 2023
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.

The Incredible Shrikes

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It’s October 1952 and Hull Fair is encamped on wasteland adjoining Walton Street. P.C. Whitty is looking for the ‘The Incredible Shrikes’. At the far end of the encampment he sees two human size paintings of birds on the side of a caravan. A poster depicting the shrikes and their human trainers, in bird costumes, reads: ‘The Shrikes. They said we’d never train the infamous Butcher Birds. BUT WE HAVE!’

He knocks on the caravan’s door – there’s no reply. He shouts, Anyone home? 
A woman opens the door. Behind her, inside the caravan, many shrikes swirl. 
I’m sorry, Whitty says, I can’t think straight with all them birds swirling about.
The woman puts her fingers to her lips and blows a high-pitched whistle; the shrikes perch where they can.
Thanks, Mrs Shrike.
We’re not married. What do you want?
To speak with you both about the legality of your act.
Best come in. Ollie’s out. I’m his partner, Polly. Our act is legal. 
Whitty retches behind a handkerchief over his mouth and nose. 
Yeah, they do shit a lot. 
Could we please open a window? 
Cut to the chase, constable.
A concerned member of the public has made an official complaint. This asserts that
our fairground sideshow, featuring shrikes, is disturbing.
What’s disturbing about it? Great Grey Shrikes are predatory songbirds known as ‘Butcher birds’. They live here with us. 
Good god. Why?
It makes us think like shrikes, sort of method acting; we get inside their heads, and they get inside ours.
So, they’re not pets?
No, they’re nasty; you wouldn’t want one as a pet. We’ve trained them to perform in a purpose-built big mesh cage by doing tricks before catching mice and hanging ‘em on barbed wire.
Isn’t that cruel?
It’s natural for the birds.
I was thinking of the mice. I must speak to you both. When’ll he be back?
I never know. I think the cheating bastard’s got another bit on the side. I’ve had enough. He’s got it coming. 
What’s he got coming?
Hell hath no fury …. Try tomorrow about four; he’ll be costuming up then.

The next day Whitty arrives and finds the caravan’s door flapping in the wind. He goes in. There’s no sign of Polly, or the birds, but the stink of shit remains.

Outside, to the rear of the caravan, he sees someone dressed in a large grey and white bird costume. Mrs Strike, is that you? he calls. 
Laughing, she takes off her costume’s head and says, He’s gone. On the ground, dressed in an identical costume, lies an inert body. She pulls off its costume’s head, revealing bloodied barbed wire tightly bound around the man’s neck cutting through his jugular vein and carotid artery. Meet Ollie, she says. Two shrikes peck at Ollie’s wounds. 

Subsequently, Whitty frequently ‘sees’ shrikes feeding on Ollie’s neck. He hears shrikes and Polly shrieking and believes this to be laughter. He takes compulsory retirement due to a mental breakdown.

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 2023
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.

The Unicorn

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In 1956 JR and George are ten years old and the best of friends; their ‘playground’ is Stapleford woods. It’s a bright sunny day, when, near an ancient oak, they discover some spots of a silver liquid shimmering and sparkling on the grass.
Is it paint? George asks.
Dunno. There’s no tin. Bad people dump tins of paint. 
What’s them? JR asks, pointing at tiny silver footprints amongst the silver spots.
George takes a closer look. Too small for a deer. Is it fairies? 
Fairies? JR asks. You don’t believe in fairies, do you?
Nar, that’s a girlie thing, but it’s a mystery. We could pretend we’re detectives and follow the trail of spots.
We don’t have to pretend, cos they’re real, JR says.
They follow the trail. 
You excited? JR asks.
Yeah. Wonder what we’ll find.
If it was a hurt animal, its blood it should be red not silver, JR observes.
If it’s bleeding, it could need help.
Do magical creatures bleed? What did Mr Southall say?
About what? George asks.
The Royal coat of arms has got a unicorn on it. He said it was mythical.
Teacher said they was as rare as hens’ teeth, George says. One of them girls said a unicorn has silver blood.
The trail leads them to a leafy glade. JR stares at the grass. Blood’s stopped, he announces. You search over in the bushes and I’ll go down to see if it’s at the bottom of the field.
George sets off as JR disappears into thick undergrowth. After a few minutes, he stops dead in his tracks. As he stares at an open tin of silver paint, he hears George shouting, Any luck?
JR hesitates. No, nothing here, he says and carefully buries the tin in undergrowth.
Back in the glade, George looks downhearted. 
Cheer up; it’s been an adventure, JR says. It’ll be shy, or hiding. We gotta promise each other to keep our Unicorn secret; we don’t want him frightened off. 
George uses his penknife he makes a tiny cut in their index fingers. 
They rub their bloodied fingers together and swear silence.

Many years later they return to the village to celebrate their seventieth birthdays and agree that they’ll return to the glade for the last time.

Did you ever think the Unicorn was here? JR asks as they stand in the leafy glade.
Did you? 
Not really. But I wanted to, JR says, wishing he could take back his lie.
The two men turn. In a bright pool of sunlight a unicorn whinnies and nods his horn. Get a photo, quick, JR says. 
Using his phone camera George videos the Unicorn.
Let’s see, JR asks.
George presses play. Both men look down at the screen.
George shouts in triumph, We got him! We got evidence.
They look up; the Unicorn has gone.
Looking back at the screen they watch the images of the Unicorn disappear.

I need to tell you something, George, JR sighs.

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 2023
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.

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.

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.

Below Stairs

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Jed and his wife, Margie, are taking breakfast in the kitchen. There’ll be thunder today, she says, I can always feel it coming.
Just like a dog. Jed is unaware of Margie’s look of contempt as he continues, If this arthritis pain in my fingers gets worse I won’t be able to use my shotgun.
The rabbits will be pleased. 
That’s all you can say? I’m suffering.
Might it all be in your head? Margie suggests.
That’s rich coming from you, hiding in the understairs cupboard afeared of thunder and lightning.
The doctor says it’s an abnormal hysterical reaction.
More like guilt.
The GP says I need therapy. 
Therapy? Bunkum, Jed says. I’m off to the auction at Louth market.
You mean you’re going to the Boar’s Head to get pissed again?
What’s it to you?
Nothing anymore.

Alone, and hearing thunder in the distance, Margie goes to a kitchen cupboard, removes writing paper and a ballpoint pen. She writes.

Jed
When we married we were full of hope and excitement. Then we had our son, John, and we were happy. Too soon, it all changed one night with that freak summer storm of thunder, lightning and torrential rain. The noise was terrifying. Our baby, our John, was splashing in the bath. All the windows and the kitchen door were open. Rain was just pouring in on that expensive carpet you’d bought for our bedroom. I should have taken him with me but I thought he’d be ok for just a few minutes. As I ran back to the bathroom, I knew everything was wrong. He’d drowned. I tried to kiss him back to life. The lightning kept flashing like God was pointing at me. You called me a murderer. The verdict was accidental death. You’ve never forgiven me. He was your boy. You’ve forgotten he was my boy too. I agree, I’m guilty.
What’s the point of going on? There isn’t one – not without John and being trapped in your hate as a skivvy. 
Margie.

As she leaves her letter leaning on the teapot on the kitchen table, the juggernaut of thunder crashes towards Margie; her skin prickles with fear.

Inside the large understairs cupboard she sits on a small wooden chair that Jed made for when his son was older. Jed’s loaded shotgun rests across Margie’s thighs. The thunder is ever nearer. Bright lightning flashes beneath the cupboard door. Her bitten lower lip bleeds. Massive claps of thunder shake the house. She imagines nursing John’s wet body. She picks up the shotgun, puts both barrels in her mouth but as she strains to reach the triggers, the door flies open. Jed leans into the cupboard waving her letter. This a suicide note? He shouts. Maggie swings toward him and fires both barrels at point blank range removing the top of his head. Covered in blood, brain and bone, she thinks, I just need one shell for me. Then I’ll be free.

No one hears the shot.

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.

The Bed

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I’m eighty-two and I want a bed of my own. My last bed, our marital bed, was bought by the husband for our golden wedding anniversary.

I loved the husband but it was only after he died that I realised that the house was a kind of man cave; hardly surprising when we had three sons – four men in the house for years and years, and just one woman – me: invisible until needed.

Men smell different to us; it’s not necessarily offensive, except, of course, when they fart. When the four of them were at it they had a conspiracy of silence never admitting their stink; they just laughed at my objections. My father had the ‘Man Smell’ and his was a mixture of tweed suits, pipe smoke and bad breath. The husband, near the end, smelt like an old comfortable armchair covered in well worn moquette, plus the slight smell of shoe polish from his habitual brogues and we always laughed at his futile habit of chewing mints to disguise his whisky breath.

The décor, in the man cave, is as drab as a downpour in November. I tried to put a bit of colour into our lives; I gave the boys lovely bright colours in their bedrooms. As they got older they complained that their mates would think they were fairies. You’d think having anything pink within fifty feet was an indication of incipient homosexuality. Bloody rubbish, and I said so, but the husband wasn’t having jolly chintz when he could have brown. Even a footstooll upholstered in William Morris’ ‘Strawberry Thief’ gave him a fit of the Heebie Jeebies. 

It’s about ownership. Not just the owning of me as me, but the me that’s expressed through the house. It’s never been ‘my’ house; it’s always been ‘their’ house, or ‘our’ house, but never mine.

I never wanted him forever dead; though God forgive me, there were times when I did. But he is, and now I’ve ordered a double bed of my own; a single divan would make feel that I was in a home. The curtains are ugly but they’ll keep me warm. The red and dark green Axminster carpet will see me out as will the rest of it, especially the endless brown furniture so polished you can see your face in it. I can’t be bothered anymore; I’m too old; it can all stay as it is.

The husband was bigger than me and over the years he’d made a big body-shaped hollow in the old mattress. I’d forgotten that just after he died, I used to sleep in his hollow; it was the nearest I could get to the husband and it fitted me nicely. It was a comfort; he was there but not there. 

I’ve now had my new bed for a couple of weeks. But I can’t sleep; there’s no husband hollow to curl up in. I’m cold and lonely. I should have kept that mattress. 

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.

Mourning

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George is a gamekeeper. His daily routine begins after an early breakfast with his inspection of the estate’s woodland. As ever, his old, increasingly frail, Border collie, Sam, accompanies him.

In a clearing near the main road, Sam barks as he hears a mewling sound from within nearby dense undergrowth. George holds up a finger and Sam is silent. They push their way past hawthorn and ash saplings. Good God, George gasps. A fallow deer, a doe, stands over the carcass of a stag. The doe, terrified, runs off. George studies the badly butchered body of the stag. Poachers, he says, buggers are at it again; no jobs, no money, no food on the table and hungry kids; It’s not right but nor is this. Flies swarm as maggots feast. Look at the poor beast; nothing deserves being cut up like that – no respect. Sam, stay. Keep strangers away.

It’s midday by the time George has dug a grave big enough for the stag’s body. He’s bloodied and tired by the time he’s buried the stag deep enough to prevent predators. As he rests on his spade Sam quietly growls. Turning, George sees the doe standing watching him. Hello, George says, I won’t harm you. The doe turns and disappears into the wood. She’s mourning, George says, adding, Don’t be daft, man, deer aren’t human.

The following night George is awakened by a haunting persistent high-pitched cry. He dresses and with Sam at his side sets off for the stag’s grave. Reaching it, they find the doe wailing like a banshee. George and Sam stand silently until the doe sees them. She doesn’t run for cover but continues to keen. She’s mourning, George says, I was right; I’ve never seen or heard the like of it.

On the following night George and Sam join the doe at the grave. On the way back to the cottage Sam stumbles and is unable to walk any further. George carries his dog slung across his shoulders. Back in the keeper’s cottage he lays Sam in front of the wood-burning stove and feeds Sam bread dipped in whisky – a remedy in which he has no faith; nevertheless Sam sleeps.

In the early morning light George sits on the floor by Sam stroking him, telling the dog that he’ll be okay, knowing full well that his dog is near death. He sits with him until the end.

It’s early evening when George gently lowers Sam into the grave. He looks up to see the doe standing just outside the garden fence. George smiles and says thanks. By the time George has completed the burial, he wants to say a prayer but the only words that come to him are, “Though lovers be lost, love shall not; and death shall have no dominion.” That night George visits the stag’s grave and stands with the doe. When George leaves for the cottage the doe comes with him. From then on deer and man are inseparable.

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.

Returned to sender

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I first encountered Nathaniel just after I’d moved in next door to his large stone house in Moffatt. He was shouting in his back garden.

Oi, you up there. Call yourself a fucking god? Here I am, ninety-two years old with my mind as sharp as a tack with fucking limbs that refuse to do what my brain tells them. I go to walk forward but my feet don’t move quickly enough and I end up falling flat on my face. I’m supposed to believe in you but what do I get out of it? Bugger all. So, fuck off!

Well said, I shouted.
Who’s that? 
I’m Dunbar, your new neighbour.
Fancy a dram with me later? he asked.
From that moment we became friends and began an early evening Saturday ritual of putting the world to rights over a bottle of Tamnavulin.

On Thursday 8th of September 2022 Queen Elizabeth II died.

On Saturday September 10th 2022 her death is the only topic of discussion

For Christ’s sake, man, Nathaniel says, The Windsors are Germans, and ersatz Scots, still living in Victoria’s fantasy of a mythic Scotland of kilts, tins of shortbread, stags at fucking bay, whisky, pipers, haggis and soldiers in fancy dress.
Maybe, but she did a good job.
So have our nurses and all the others who got us through Covid. No one will glorify their deaths.
Of course we will, I replied.
You know we won’t.  Listen, the monarchy’s facade is a charade. Strip off their fancy dress and fancy ways and they’re just ordinary people – just rich racists. They describe us as their subjects, whereas we’re citizens whose rights as human beings are inalienable and not a privilege bestowed by Royalty. 

He was about to go on one of his rants so I made an excuse and went home. 

On Saturday September 17th I arrived for our normal Saturday dram. Eventually I found him lying dead under a freezing shower. I couldn’t have felt greater guilt; he was ninety-six and I should have taken more care of him. The doctor said it was natural causes and he could have been dead for days. I couldn’t help but compare the Queen’s Lying in State and Nathaniel’s end.

In a state of shock I went through all the formalities as he had no immediate family. Searching through his address book I found a London postal address of a ‘distant cousin’. 

Following his minimalist cremation I posted his ashes to the London address along with my name and address on the cardboard box.

Weeks pass, then months. The postman returns the box of ashes. There are multiple addresses crossed out and finally, ‘Return to sender’. 

The Queen’s death faded from the news agenda and the world rolled on. I buried Nathaniel in his overgrown garden. He deserved a better death, if there is such a thing. I marked his grave with a wooden cross and a small plaque.  

‘Oi, you up there.‘

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
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