Category Archives: Blog Post

Bijoux

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Some think that what happened in the fall of 2027 in Washington D.C. is fiction, others, wishful thinking.

Dot, an ostensibly rich and flamboyant widow of sixty-five, left London via Heathrow and entered the US through Dulles International airport on a false passport. On opening one of her suitcases American customs found it filled with large ornate decorative hats; she explained, an aristocratic lady of importance, must have many hats.

Later, Dot visited a dog farm and collected a corgi, named Bijoux. It had been trained to be friendly to strangers, obedient and content to be carried in a baby-stroller. 

President Trump had already announced the construction of an arch celebrating his creation of world peace. It was expected he would crown himself ‘Emperor of the Americas’ at the official opening of his ‘Maga Arch’. 

For the next several months Dot was a regular visitor to the Ellipse (the land near the White House) where the arch was under construction, guarded by ICE agents, who assessed her as presenting no threat to the arch. She formed a superficial friendship with agent ZX5, who recalled, Dot? Sure, I liked her: kinda crazy, looked whacky, every day a new hat, like something from the fresh fruit counter at Calomiris and Sons. The dog’s baby stroller flew a Stars and Stripes, and a MAGA flag.  Even her fucking dog had a MAGA coat. 
What sort of a dog?
Corgi. Said she’d been a lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth; Bijoux was left to her as a thank you gift. 
What sort of a coat? 
Big. I asked her why it needed a coat when it’s in a stroller?
Said it was frail. Fat as a little pig. Frail? No fucking way.
Anything else about the coat.
It looked like it was stuffed.
Stuffed? With what?
Hell, I don’t know.
Wasn’t it examined?
Nope, not by me. She was just a lunatic in hats; harmless; never blasphemed.
Did you tell her what days the President visited the construction site.
For sure. She worshipped Trump, like he was a god. They cooed like turtle doves.
What did he think of her? 
I don’t know; I’m a nobody. Trump loved Bijoux, liked to lip kiss the ugly fucker.
What happened on that day?
Trump’s inspecting the arch when Dot rocks up. She pulls the corgi out of the stroller and shouts, Donald! Bijoux needs a hug! Carrying Bijoux, she runs to the President who’s waiting with outstretched arms. Dot trips. Boom! Fucking boom. All fucking blood and guts. Dot, Bijoux. – dead. President, clothes in shreds, hair on fire, gibbering with severe PTSD as his arch crumbled.
Was the bomb in her hat?
Nope, reckon it was Bijoux. 

This note was found in the baby-stroller:

In a democracy the people’s government must uphold the human rights of all notwithstanding: age, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation and includes those seeking asylum and citizenship resulting in the right to life, liberty & the pursuit of happiness. 

These were not Trump’s values. 

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

Broad

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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

An Albatross

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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.

The Flock

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June 23rd 2016.
A narrow lane is bounded by high hedges and, beyond these, are verdant pastures where sheep are reared. In a field, elderly rotund sheep, blessed with luxurious fleeces, rest beneath the shade of an ancient oak. The tranquillity is enhanced by the barely audible buzzing of bees, the gentle snoring and breathing of some of the sheep, while others idly stare at the flock of younger sheep, further off, grazing. If it were a painting or lithograph, it would be by Samuel Palmer. 

Today is the day when citizens cast their votes in the referendum to decide whether the United Kingdom (sic) remains within the European Union or leaves it. Outside a polling station a throng repeatedly chant, Take back control! A man asks, Is the leader coming today?

A shepherd, David, with his dog, Sam, beside him, smiles and stares lovingly at the sheltering sheep, thinking, My grand OAPs. Well, he whispers to the dog, Sheep transporter be here soon. I’ll go and get the gate. Keep your eyes on them young ‘uns; don’t want them getting spooked. One of the sheep, an old ram, beneath the oak bleats. David laughs, They say sheep be stupid, but you ain’t, is you, Johno? 

Johno walks out from under the oak’s canopy and patiently waits until he hears the sound of a lorry approaching. Sam runs towards the grazing sheep until a shrill whistle calls him back to David. The driver of the transporter lowers the metal loading ramp and gives the thumbs up. Off you go, Johno, David instructs.

Outside the same polling station, police form a barrier between demonstrators, some waving Union flags and others EU flags. A man, protected by two large ‘minders’, joins the ‘leavers’ to a chant of Forage! Forage! A ‘remainer’ laughs, They don’t even know that bastard’s name.

Johno walks toward the flock that is already panicking, bleating at the sight of the lorry. Johno, next to a young ram, whispers, Trust me. You’re safe with me. Soon you’ll be resting without a care in the world. There’s no future here for the lambs. 

The ram, after a moment of hesitation, joins Johno and walks toward the lorry. Within moments the entire flock, with Johno leading, is safely locked inside the transporter. As the lorry moves off, some sheep panic; Johno tells yet more lies until they quieten.

Johno leads the panicking sheep out into the abattoir yard where they’re sorted into pens. One of the workers puts a rope around Johno’s neck and leads him out onto the road where the shepherd waits beside his Land Rover. The two men lift Johno into the back of the vehicle.

The worker laughs, You’ll soon be enjoying the silence of the lambs. Just as well you’ve a Judas sheep leading them into their doom.

In the referendum, as in the slaughterhouse, Judas won and, bloated with hubris, continued to mislead the flock without a single moment of guilt.

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.

The Stink of Musk Ox

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Morton isn’t certain if it’s dawn or twilight, nor certain of much else, except that he’s riding a stolen bike on an expedition he feels compelled to make. This is often the case; he’s mystified as to why that’s so. He speeds through vast deserted plazas between empty towering corporate concrete buildings where the wind whistles, no birds sing, and sunlight never falls; not ever a place that feels like home. 

Instinctively, he knows the location of the secret escape route into the Wildness but fears it will have been discovered, blocked, or observed by CCTV cameras; however, all is clear. He pulls hummocks of weeds to one side and, lying on his stomach, pushes his way through. In the darkness he concentrates, his eyes wide, straining to see the way ahead. 

The sky lightens. A fresh west wind blows away black clouds and the sun breaks through. Staring ahead, he sees the Wildness stretching as far as the eye can see, and further yet than that; he finds it beautiful. Continuing, he approaches a swathe of daffodils. Bending to the flowers he sniffs, hoping to discover their smell. His disappointment soon disappears at the sight of gravel glinting beneath crystal light.  Euphoric at the beauty of blades of viridescent grass decked with beads of dew, he thinks the Wildness is beauty itself. 

Emerging from behind a wall of dense blackthorn, he comes upon a vast circular arena populated by an untold number of noisy stocky white animals. He struggles to remember the illustration seen in a child’s dictionary. Sheep! he shouts. The sheep vanish. A solitary man waits. 
Morton, terrified, begs, What happened to the sheep?
Welcome, Morton, the man says. 
How do you know my name? 
Do you remember when you were six?
Only a bit. I had polio. I was paralysed, could hardly breath, and couldn’t walk until I was ten.
And here you are, still walking.
It was a miracle.
Yes, my miracle. Your parents begged me to implant an A1 chip in your brain, and here you are with me, your maker. You asked about the sheep: they only existed in your head. I put them there and I made them vanish.
Why?
To help you understand that since then, my AI has managed you. 
What’s AI?
A tool. I control your every action. You are my creature. You have no free will. 
If that’s true, why am I here?
To see if my experiment is complete. Come closer. Can you smell me?
Morton goes close. You stink of piss. It’s disgusting.
Success! Smell was the last sense I hadn’t mastered. 
Are you God?
As good as.
Set me free.
Agreed, shake on it.
Morton’s hand passes through thin air.
The man laughs, I’m not here.
The man disappears. The Wildness is gone. Spinning twisters swirl across an endless sea of sand beneath a blistering sun. 
Please, come back. I don’t want to die alone. Please.

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.

In The Dark

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Wednesday 7th September 2022
Prime Minister’s questions 
The House of Commons UK, the Palace of Westminster, London

Sylvia is almost certain that she’s waited long enough in the void between the floor above and the suspended ceiling below her. She carefully slides a ceiling panel open and peeps out into the dim light to ensure the corridor is empty before silently lowering herself to the vinyl clad floor. Standing on an adjacent plastic chair she slides the panel back into place – just in case. She stands very still, her breathing quiet, listening intently for warning signals that might cause unnecessary irritation.

She smooths her green scrubs, drapes a stethoscope around her neck (over her identity lanyard) and adjusts the bright yellow badge, displaying her name, Dr Sylvia Kraujas. Donning a face mask she casually sets forth wearing a pair of cherry red ‘Doc Martins’ boots. She smiles, knowing that her bubble glass spectacles make her look like a myopic goldfish. 

In the enormous empty outpatients’ waiting room she stops. High-pitched squeaking, and out of tune whistling, echo from one of the four corridors leading into the cavernous space. She waits. A porter pushes an ancient hospital bed into the room. 

That could do with some oil, Sylvia says as the whistling porter approaches.
Yeah, the wheels and me both, Doc, he replies.
I was thinking of your whistle, she laughs.
Bloody doctors, he mutters as he continues on his way.

Sylvia has memorised the hospital plan she’d been given by an ex-nurse who’d fallen under her thrall and had, frustratingly, died from exsanguination after a night of Sylvia’s gluttony.

Arriving at her destination, she stares in disbelief at the badly handwritten sign ‘Blood Getting Room’ slightly obscuring the word Phlebotomy. The grammar is appalling but her real incredulity is the naivety of the nurses and their managers: have these people no respect for the dangers to their patients’ safety – had they not seen the red-tops who’d been running the story for weeks?

She shrugs and opens the door. Entering in the dark, for a moment she’s overwhelmed with delight at the lingering aroma of blood. She pauses on the threshold. There’s something wrong. Yep, it’s male human sweat. A male voice bellows, ‘Gotcha!’ Sudden bright light bursts from the room. Sylvia flees as confused police officers stumble over each other in pursuit. Not yet! she shouts. Bursting through the emergency exit she jumps onto the passenger seat of the motorcycle that awaits her before it roars away into the night.

The Daily Mail’s front-page headline reads – ‘Dr Blood escapes! The Met fails yet AGAIN!’

On an inside page, The Guardian teases, ‘Is the recent escape of this dangerous woman, known as Dr Blood, a rare example of the Tory government actually preventing ever more blood haemorrhaging from our NHS?’

Prime Minister Truss denies that the Tory government, under her leadership, has ever allowed money to be cut from the NHS.

Sir Lindsay Hoyle (The Speaker) can’t stem the laughter.

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 2024
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 Loft

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The pigeon loft that Maud, a devoted pigeoneer, constructed over many years is beautiful and luxurious – nothing being too good for her beloved carrier pigeons. The double occupancy bird boxes are impeccable and not much smaller than the rooms in a show-house on a Taylor-Wimpey estate. 

As she moved through childhood, puberty and adult life, she found increasing difficulty in forming lasting relationships with either sex; her pigeons always came back and were incapable of deceit. Now, in her eighties and frail, Maud lives alone; her spirit not dulled by ill-health.

Entering the loft, a wave of sadness overtakes her; once there had been forty birds; now, one bird remains: old, handsome and housed in a single occupancy box of some grandeur. The bird coos as Maud approaches, puts her hand inside the box, strokes the pigeon, and sits on a nearby stool gasping for breath, cursing the pain in her chest.

Do you ever wonder why I named you Caractacus? she asks.
The bird coos. 
It’s daft. Caractacus was a first century British warrior chieftain who fought the Romans. When I first got you, I was impressed. I was right, you kept the loft in order, often with a sharp peck of rebuke. Romantic old fool, aren’t I? 
The bird coos.
I need to talk to you, get something off my chest. I have no one else.
The bird coos, and struggles onto her lap.
I’m a mess. Old. I get things wrong on my computer; I hate the bloody thing. Anyway, I have a dicky heart that constantly gives me grief. Maud waits until the pain subsides. My GP refers me to a hospital. Turns out there are two hospitals in the same trust, each with a cardiology department. I receive a letter from one hospital giving me an appointment, followed by an email from the second hospital telling me that this appointment is a mistake. I don’t go to the appointment. Next, I get a letter from the first hospital telling me I have a new appointment and warns me that if I don’t attend, I will be denied treatment. I’m frightened. 

Maud weeps, carefully holding the bird. The pigeon coos.

Struggling for breath and with her pain soaring, Maud haltingly, continues. Two days later there’s an email: I don’t have an appointment. I telephone both hospitals and ask what’s going on. No one knows. I lose my temper. I’m accused of abusing staff and censured. Two weeks later another letter arrives from the first hospital offering me a further appointment and it’s my very last chance. Nothing else arrives. I give up. I don’t go to the appointment. I’m too ill. A final letter arrives – I’m wasting their time and will be denied care. Too late now, bureaucracy, she gasps.

Maud and the pigeon fall from the stool. 
I love you, old friend, she whispers.
The bird is silent; too infirm to fly. 

No one comes. The loft falls into ruin.

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 2024
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 Gambler

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A man is beachcombing with his dog on the northern shoreline of the tidal estuary near the derelict windmill. The dog growls and barks. The man shouts in horror, Drop it! In its mouth it holds a fully fleshed severed human head by the ear.

It’s night. Conrad, in his car, struggles to find his way through the chaotic network of narrow tracks on the southern shore of the estuary. Finally, his headlights pick out a fingerpost indicating, ‘The Causeway’. He sets off on foot, shivering in the cold damp air, searching for the seldom seen Roman causeway. Legend has it that it leads from one side of the estuary to the other at the time of an exceptionally low Spring tide; the water recedes, revealing the causeway, stretching across the vast expanse of mud. No living person is known to have made the crossing. 

Conrad worries about the wisdom of his bet; but the bookie offering to clear all his huge gambling debts for this one-off wager was too good to miss. The bragging rights of success would be invaluable in restoring his self-respect and reputation.

After fighting his way through reed beds, he arrives at the wooden pier where the path to the causeway supposedly starts. Clouds part and a bright moon shines. It doesn’t take him long to discover that the pier is a rotten death trap. 

Jesus! Conrad shouts. Who the fuck are you? he demands as a small boy takes his hand. Can you talk?
The boy shakes his head, gesticulating that he cannot speak.
You look like you were born old, Conrad thinks. Have you come to guide me? 
The boy nods.

After a short walk the boy points at the long causeway, leading out across the mud. Conrad, elated, sees a construction made of thousands of sets in serried rows. They should be stone, but somehow, they’re not. More like metal, he thinks. What does it remind me of? Can’t be, he concludes. Looking down he sees the boy grinning at him. You know what I’m thinking, don’t you? The boy nods.

Did this just move? Conrad wonders, standing on the causeway. Alarmed, he kneels and touches the surface on which he stands. Not stone. Not metal. A distant heartbeat! Animal scales. Shit! he gasps. He turns to retrace his steps but hesitates; he thinks of being debt free at last. The boy grabs his hand and pulls him on. It must be safe otherwise the child wouldn’t be here, Conrad reasons. 

As they reach the northern shore he sees the derelict windmill. He looks down: the boy has gone. Conrad leaps onto the shingle and shouts, Done it! Free!

He turns. It’s a fucking crocodile! Conrad freezes, hypnotised, as he stares into the monster’s unblinking eyes. Suddenly, the creature lunges forward, engulfing Conrad in its enormous mouth; his screams are drowned out as the crocodile eats him alive. Sated, the animal opens its mouth wide, belches, and spits out Conrad’s severed head.

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 2024
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.

What the Duck

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Your usual? Antonio asks.
Double espresso, per favore. Not many in today; it’s the weather. One day it’s pissing down, the next day you could fry an egg on the pavement, not that you would do that outside here: not with all the dog shit and cigarette ends. It’s going to get worse. 
The dog shit?
No, the climate.
Thanks for that, Nigel. Ever the optimist.
Do you know why they say the weather’s changed? Changes in the climate are natural; the ice age wasn’t caused by factories belching out crap because they didn’t exist back then. It was just natural. You’re wondering why anybody would tell lies about the climate. I’ll tell you. It’s to create fear; it’s a communist plot, an attack on the free world, on liberty. Making money, profit, will be a crime. Climate change is fake, made by bad men.
Is this going to be another rant? Antonio sighs.
No, I’m just explaining how we’ll survive.
If climate change is fake what’s the problem about survival?
Make capitalism strong again and survive extinction.
How? This doesn’t make sense.
Nigel looks left and right and whispers, It’s secret.
My café’s empty.
Walls have ears.
Go on, Antonio groans.
He said it was a secret.
Who?
He came to me in a dream.
Who?
Donald, Nigel replies.
Donald Duck?
Donald Trump.
A cartoon fucking duck! Antonio laughs. 
What’s that supposed to mean? Nigel asks.
Well, they’re both quackers.
You’ll be sorry when he’s President again. He’s going to take revenge on his enemies, abolish one person one vote, execute traitors, change the US constitution and crown himself Emperor. It’ll mean a new civil war but with Zuckerberg’s control over digital communication, and the active support of Google’s data, along with Dyson’s renewable energy in Musk’s and Bezos’ spaceships he’ll win by using the existing means of intellectual production.
What’s intellectual production? Antonio asks.
It’s all the lying crap pretending to be true, like news on TV, films, radio, newspapers, magazines, books, the curriculum in schools and universities, and all religious fantasies. Trump’s ideological beliefs are so compelling that America will vote Trump and all his enemies will be Trumped, Nigel howls with laughter.
And the duck told you all this in a dream? Why you?
I told him I was King Charles’ illegitimate son.
The fuckwit duck believed you?
He’s not an expert on the English monarchy. I‘m his English standard bearer. 
On a white charger like some latter-day Lone Ranger? Never. This isn’t America, England’s a parliamentary democracy.
Parliamentary democracy is the scam the ruling class use as a barricade behind which their power remains undiminished. Nothing will ever change, until they’re destroyed, and a new world order is put in place. Citizens, free at last, under Emperor Trump, who’ll make America great again and I’ll make England the same.
It’s madness. 
You wait and see. Don’t forget, you’re an immigrant; we’ll be sending you home.
E’ pericoloso minacciare la mafia! Antonio laughs.

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 2024
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.

Taking the Biscuit

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Jaci Jones enters the kitchen in her working clothes: a full-length deep green velvet dress topped off with a matching turban over a long black wig. 
Finally got a client, Mum?
Yes, it’s only my regulars who come for a reading since that bastard Jimmy Rydal‘s crew destroyed my booth on the prom because he didn’t like my predictions; they even killed the goldfish. It scared me. 
Why do you keep doing it?
It keeps the wolf from the door and supplies you with biscuits.
I only keep a bit of my dole money for the biscuits; you get the rest.
You’ll look like a stick insect. Everyone knows biscuits dry your blood.
Wouldn’t there be a danger warning on the packet, like on fags?
Biscuit companies would go bust if people knew the truth.
Did you know your fortune telling booth was going to be destroyed?
No, I can’t tell my own future. The police said I was a fraud and taking money under false pretences. They never said that to Mystic bloody Meg on the telly, did they? Stop eating those biscuits. You’ll turn into a biscuit one day.
Just like you predicted Thatcher would never be prime minister. 
You can’t predict the behaviour of witches, Jaci laughs.
The front doorbell rings.
That’ll be Mrs Evans come for a reading. Have you fed the new goldfish?
Yes, I fed the poor little sod. Do the Mrs Evans of your world really believe that staring at a fish swimming round and round a glass bowl will let you see their future? Jaci slams the door behind her. I bet I was also a surprise, John thinks. 

An hour later Jaci enters the empty kitchen. Standing at the foot of the stairs, she shouts, John, you up there? Silence. 
Next morning, exhausted from worry and no sleep, she reports John as a missing person to the police. She’s fobbed off with the usual homilies that it’s too early to be talking about a ‘misper’.

A year later, the doorbell rings. 
Have you found him at last? Jaci asks the female constable. 
Best if we sit down, Mrs Jones.
In the kitchen the WPC hands Jaci a photograph. Is this your son? 
Jaci bursts into tears.
He hadn’t paid his rent and not been seen for weeks. He was found in a caravan in Brean Down.
Through her sobs Jaci says, We went there when he was a nipper before his father did a runner. How did he die?
The pathologist is mystified; not drop of blood in his body and dry as parchment. 
Like a stick insect, Jaci sobbed. 
The van was stacked with hundreds of empty ginger biscuit packets. You look terrible. Shall I make us a cuppa?
The WPC sets mugs on the table and says, I’m starved. I’m sorry do you have a biscuit?

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 2024
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.