Category Archives: Trump

Cross Purposes

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The Oakland Museum of California, 2025. A tour party is about to start viewing the ‘Dorothea Lange Collection’.

A man, wearing a MAGA cap, points at Lange’s photograph, ‘Migrant Mother, Nipomo, California, 1936’, and asks Leonid, the tour guide, Why’s that so famous?
Leonid sees the man’s name badge. Ok, Billy, I’ll try to explain. Dorothea Lange is one of the great social photographers.
Ah, a socialist, Andrea, another tourist, states.
Leonid sighs. No. This portrait of Florence Owens Thompson and her children, embodies the suffering of destitute ordinary people during the Midwestern Dust Bowl disaster when 300,000 people migrated to California in search of work and a future for their children.
She’s a failure with no shame, Andrea says.
You said she’s a migrant, September says, She illegal? 
Migrant not immigrant, Leonid replies. The photograph was taken at the height of the ‘Great Depression’. You all know about that, right? Leonid asks.
Sure do; was when Jew bankers stole our money, Andrea asserts.
That’s a lie and racist, Leonid objects.
You calling me an antisemite? Andrea responds. I got Jew friends.
Where’d she crawled from? Billy asks. Skid Row?
She was an American citizen, just like you, Leonid explains. Shall we move on, there’s so much of her work to be seen?
Why do that? Billy asks.
Why come here? Leonid asks.
To see what commie propaganda looks like before Donald closes the museum down.
That’s outrageous. Leonid says. 
You don’t create MAGA by celebrating failure. This place is subversive, Billy states.
Your badge says you’re Leonid. You Russian? September queries. 
Do I sound Russian? I’m British. 
If you were a spy, you wouldn’t sound Russian.
Are you Russian? Billy demands.
Ok, Leonid laughs. I’m Russian – I’m Leonid Brezhnev.
Told you! Andrea shouts. They’ll come for you, for sure.

Following fierce pounding, Leonid opens his apartment door and is confronted by two stocky men wearing face masks, baseball caps, stab-proof jackets, ICE* badges and prominently holstered automatic pistols. 
Well, if it isn’t the boys from the Arctic, Leonid laughs.
You Leonid Brezhnev?
Speak up, will you? You’re mumbling.
Are you Leonid Brezhnev?
I’m a British citizen and outside of your jurisdiction.
Like fuck you do, Pal. This is your jurisdiction, one of the agents says forcing Leonid’s face against the wall.
Are you Leonid Brezhnev?
I can’t speak like this, Leonid groans. Standing free, he continues, You been listening to those
dumb fucks in the museum?
You the dumb fuck, arsehole. Them, citizens doing their duty and looking out for commies, got it? Leonid winces from a sudden slap in his face, 
Are you Leonid Brezhnev?
Brezhnev died in 1982; he ran Russia. Let me get my ID, Leonid says, putting his hand inside his bomber jacket.
Don’t do that!
Look, Leonid says, here’s my … He doesn’t finish his sentence.
I thought he was pulling a …
He was.
There’s no gun.
Sure is.
Yeah, I see it now. 
He’s as dead as JFK.
Another mystery.

*https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_Immigration_and_Customs_Enforcement

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 means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.

Cabin Fever

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Since 2008, when his property was repossessed in the midst of the subprime market crash, Bob has lived totally off-grid in a cabin in Oregon, east of Oakridge between the Willamette Highway and Hills Creek Lake. He is glad to be out of the America he has come to detest. How, in the land of the free and the brave, is abortion legal? How come blacks are so uppity? Why is buggery legal? Why wasn’t he, a civilised white man, allowed to live in comfort? How come Hispanics take all the jobs? Who allowed inter-racial marriage? And after what the Muslims did on 9/11 why are they still walking our streets? He has an answer. All these American disasters came because the USA had a President who wasn’t God’s agent. America must be redeemed.

Bob avoids contact with people and uses the seclusion of the forest to protect him from discovery. Every few months he walks into Oakridge to purchase essential supplies with his remaining cash; otherwise, he lives off what he can kill or forage. 

He isn’t lonely; after a decade of isolation his God, bible, beliefs and evolving obsession with the colour orange keep him company. He knows some people believe orange is the colour of joy and creativity. Others think orange promotes a sense of general ‘wellness’ and emotional energy. Yet others believe it may even heal a broken heart. But it is in the bible that he finds the truth that orange is the colour of fire, of wrath, of ambition and determination. He believes that orange represents the power and presence of God and to dream of forging a weapon with fire represents purification and perfection. He knows that if he has such a dream it will be an omen for the arrival of God’s agent and that he must act. He longs for such a dream. Instead, at night, in his head he hears Satan’s laughter at America’s gullibility. It makes him angry. His gun is always loaded; he is ready to fight Satan’s emissaries.

One morning he awakens from a deep sleep. He’s drenched with sweat. It has happened; he has dreamt the dream. He must leave his isolation to witness the arrival, of God’s agent, and that time is now.

Bob walks to Oakridge and sees a poster; the photograph is enough – it’s tangible proof. He hitches a ride to Eugene. At the rally at the Lane Events Convention Center people carry placards ‘Make America Great Again’ – this pleases him. 

Outside the Center police unsuccessfully try to keep supporters and their opponents apart. Fighting breaks out. 

Bob repeatedly chants, God’s Agent Orange! 

A man, next to Bob, punches him in the head. Dumb fuck – we used that to kill Charlie in ‘Nam. Fucking fascist Trump! 

Bob shouts. Agent Orange! 

Dumb fuck! Fuck Trump! 

Bob shoots the man stone dead, screaming, Agent Orange!

A single bullet from FBI agent Maloney brings Bob’s dream to an end. 

Trump doesn’t notice. 

I hope you enjoyed this story.  Remember, I publish a new story every Sunday.
Please feel free to pass them on to others you know who may be interested.
You can read previous stories from “Behind the Plague Door” here >>>More

© Phil Cosker 2020
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.

 

“PIGS IN HEAVEN”

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pigs in heaven

Barbara Kingsolver’s novel ‘PIGS IN HEAVEN’ (1993) is intriguing.

Initially there is something ‘Updike-like’ about Kingsolver’s prose – sharp ironic writing laced with humour. Early on – “Alice wonders if other women in the middle of the night have begun to resent their Formica.” Later – “You might see things better on television, but you’ll never know if you were alive or dead while you watched.” But, unlike Updike there is a sort of inevitability, a preordainedness, here that is quite different from the tension of the Rabbit books. It’s not a tragedy but rather a celebration of love over adversity.

The portrayal of the Cherokee Nation as a haven of familial support, love and joy makes no substantial reference to the impact of significant poverty and racism instead representing an ideal state of oneness in ‘Heaven’ that it would be a joy to be part of (some of the time).

The plot – no spoilers – resolves itself as if by magic – which is what it is – a ‘romance’ in which the best of all possible worlds comes about through (apparent) serendipity aligned with the scheming of Ms Annawake Fourkiller and the finger of god suggesting the inevitability of the victory of good over evil.

This novel feels good and there’s little harm in that right now in the midst of Brexit and the idiocy of Trump. Nothing wrong at all with love winning the day, but … the pain that has been suffered, the legacy of sadness, to get to that ideal ending is but chaff blown away, and almost forgotten, in a gentle breeze from the idyllic world of the Cherokee Nation in Heaven. But rock on – we could do with more of it! I enjoyed it.

 

 

 

 

Mt. Trump meets Mt. Putin

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A tale of two mountains

The two mountains, Mt Trump and Mt Putin, met in Helsinki because they wanted to be friends but they were afraid that their ‘bigness’, ‘strongness’, their ‘mountainess’, would impede this. Even so, two such eminences in the same place was scary like two dormant volcanoes suddenly blowing off at once and molten lava spilling out all over the place incinerating bad people amidst the most dreadful stink of burning flesh.
Mt Trump has big hair. Mt Putin has a bare chest when he rides horses and likes hand-to-hand fighting with men wearing white uniforms. Mt Trump has friends who also wear white uniforms and big white pointed hats even when it’s not Halloween. Mt Putin used to run the KGB but now he owns the FSB (which is not a sports car). Mt Trump is a serial liar, narcissist, misogynist, and racist and adores being a mountain. Mt Trump and Mt Putin have a lot in common. They are rich and elevated above us and we are grateful to live in their shadow.
Both the mountains are patriots. This is important. You can’t be a proper massif unless you are big enough to like war, hate the weak (aka bad), and find convenient victims on which to celebrate your mountainess. These victims can be found in places like Syria, México, the Ukraine and America as well as in mosques.
There has been a lot of trouble in the media about the relationship between the two mountains – this is a result of a misunderstanding, or fake news, as Mt Trump calls it. Mountains are mountains and therefore live on the high ground of their mountainess above the need for the oxygen that mere mortals crave. Sometimes Mt Trump miss-speaks but that’s only because his brain lacks oxygen.
When Mt Trump mentioned the idea that Mt Putin had been tampering with the American electoral process Mt Putin looked as sad as only a big mountain can look when it’s pissing down with sleety rain. I’m sorry, Mt Putin said, how could you think I would have done such a thing? What would have been the purpose? I’m a democrat, just like you. I am a mountain not a dried up wadi like Teresa May. I’m so sad, Donald, that you could think this of me. Mt Trump now knew for certain that he’d been right all along and his own government, and his bad spooks, had been trying to reduce him to a molehill with their bad lies about how Mt Putin is an avalanche in waiting. Being a mountain Mt Trump is above this, above the calumny dumped on his friend’s mountaintop.
There is trust between the mountains. All is good: no more recriminations. Love is in the air. The two mountains will live side by side doing great things while looking down on the bad people and putting bad democracy where it belongs – in the can.

© Phil Cosker 2018