Tag Archives: Blog

Bijoux

Posted on by
1

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

Posted on by
2

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

When Ghosts Gather

Posted on by
2

In this infinite space, silence is deafening, darkness thick as black strap molasses, and stinks of burning sulphur. 

Who are you? 
Where are we? 
I don’t know. 
You, dead like me? 
Yes, I’m Ibrahim, I’m Palestinian, and you? 
Ukrainian. I’m Victor and dead, along with my family, since 1933. I’ve not seen or spoken with another … I was going to say person, for years. Why meet you now? 
No idea. Are we ghosts? 
Must be. 
Ghosts. Bit of a shock. Where is here? 
No idea. 
You, died in1933? Impossible. This is 2025; you look thirty, like me. 
Maybe, time doesn’t exist here. 
How did you die? 
Genocide. Starvation, on the orders of Stalin, along with four million other Ukrainians in the Holodomor. 
Why? 
We disobeyed him. And your death? 
Genocide, just like you, along with my family and many thousands of other Palestinians were starved to death by Netanyahu’s Israeli government. 
Why? 
It’s a long story. In 1947, Britain and its allies, who’d defeated Fascism gave away Palestine, our country, our land, out of guilt for not stopping Hitler from murdering millions of Jewish people. Our land was stolen and now they call us the thieves.
We still fight Russia for our freedom. Stalin then, Putin now. He’s a murderous dictator and wants to re-establish the USSR’s empire. He claims Ukraine belongs to the Russian Federation and he’s waging war to steal it from us. We have a lot in common like killing our children.
Cynical bastards it kills tomorrow’s freedom fighters. 
Where are they, our dead children?  
Lost like us? 
Ghosts, yes. Lost? No. 
I wish.
Listen! Ibrahim shouts 
Look! Victor gasps. 

Fresh air swirls. Darkness vanishes. The void fills with twilight. The ghosts of children beyond number materialise; they are all intact as they were before their murder; babies are carried. The massed children chant, Peace! Justice! War no more!

Victor and Ibrahim gape as two girls walk forward.
Father, the first child speaks.
Is that you, My love? Victor sinks to his knees and embraces his daughter.
Ibrahim opens his arms, Come to me, Aisha. They kiss.
What are we to do? the two men ask. 
Stop war, the girls reply. 
How, we’re only ghosts?
We ghosts can haunt as we choose. Aisha says. 
Ibrahim says, Make peace not war. 
Victor adds. Do no physical harm. 
No need, Aisha says.

Simultaneously, the ruins of Palestine and the wreckage of the towns and cities of Ukraine are overwhelmed by swarm after swarm of the children’s ghosts as dense as a million locusts but totally silent. Soldiers, settlers, collaborators, government apparatchiks, and murderers panic; trapped, struggling for air, defenceless, realising their sudden impotence, and certain their victims, the massacred children, will hold them to account; ‘Just obeying orders’ not being an excuse. 

The Knesset and the Kremlin are totally inundated by ghosts. Netanyahu and Putin, seen as the embodiment of self-serving evil, are escorted by throngs of children to imprisonment and eventual trial for their crimes against humanity.

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.

Cross Purposes

Posted on by
Reply

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.

The Conductor

Posted on by
Reply

It’s a cold early morning in Roath Park. Malcolm stands, eyes closed, rhythmically swaying in time with his waving white gloved hands at the intersection of four gravel paths. 
A man stops to watch. Oi mate – orchestra done a runner?
Abruptly, eyes open, Malcolm replies. Just rehearsing.
What? Keeping warm.
No, Malcolm laughs. Just conducting Rossini’s ‘William Tell’ overture.
You pissed?
Sober as a beak. I hear them, well enough in me head. 
The man shakes his head as he walks off.

Later, in the empty Snug bar of the Royal Oak, Malcolm raps the bar counter and calls, Anyone home? 
The man who’d spoken to Malcolm enters. 
Hello, we met earlier. I’m Malcolm. You’re new here.
Yes, I’m Warren. New landlord.
Got any rabbits? Malcolm asks.
Just sausage rolls. What can I get you?

Warren puts a pint of ‘mixed’ on the bar. Can I ask you about earlier?
Yeah, sure.
Could you really hear the orchestra?
I always do.
What started you off conducting?
Luck. Played the sax in an army band; after I’d really listened to a piece of music I knew it by ear. I got a go at conducting rehearsals; loved it. Back here in Cardiff, as an old soldier, I blagged a job as a traffic controller for the council. Me pitch was mostly at the junction of four roads: Cardiff, Newport, Cathays and Western Avenue; accidents all the time. No traffic lights back then. I had a nice uniform, bit like a copper’s. I stood on a little raised black and white raised-up wooden box with a hinged door. I wore white gloves to conduct the traffic; I thought I were a real conductor like me namesake, Malcolm Sargent, on the telly; folks liked it; I got sort of famous. It was heaven.
Is it only Rossini you do? Warren asks.
Rossini when it’s quiet. Bizet’s ‘Carmen’ when it’s frantic. Memory is shot. Those overtures are all I can remember.
Why didn’t you go to the Welsh school of music?
Them days, they didn’t take riff raff.
Why keep practising?
In case there’s a power cut – joke; but you never know. Sentimental I am. I loved them years. I knew me regulars; waved like friends; did it for years until the council installed traffic lights. They offered us a job as one of the new traffic wardens. That didn’t work; me face was too well known. Some drivers liked me and some hated me guts for making ‘em wait. I was too embarrassed to give me friends tickets and too scared of the men’s threats to give ‘em parking tickets neither. Didn’t make me quota; got the sack. Broke me heart. Malcolm looks at his watch – Mr Lollipop Man can’t be late. He pulls on his white coat and picks up his ‘stop’ sign.
Surely, you’re, too old for that. 
Nar. I lied; last chance to conduct cars and the kids laugh at our antics. Mr Lollipop but not a dad to anyone.

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.

An Albatross

Posted on by
Reply

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 Stink of Musk Ox

Posted on by
1

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.

Reflection

Posted on by
2

As Mick enters the dining room he finds his wife, Bianca, sobbing while staring out through the window.
What is it, love? He asks, hugging her.
I can’t look at it anymore.
What’s wrong with the garden? Mick asks.
I love everything about this house. I don’t want us to sell up and leave.
We agreed it’s for the best. We won’t exchange contracts until after Christmas; we’re not going yet? Is that why you’re crying?
Yes. No. Something’s happened. It’s not my reflection. It’s me then, not me, now. 
What are you talking about?
Look at the bloody mirror, Mick! 
Turning to look at the large ornate black and gold framed mirror hanging on the wall opposite the window, Mick gasps, Oh shit! I’m the same. It’s impossible. I’m holding the screwdriver I used to …
… yes, screw our beautiful mirror to the wall, Bianca concludes. 
Do you remember, Mick asks, how we found it almost hidden in that antique shop?
Of course. We’ve given it a home all these years. It’s been like I’ve always said: there are mirrors that are warm and gentle, and mirrors that are cold and jagged. Ours is the best of the best, almost like an old friend, but taken for granted.
Are you suggesting it’s alive? Mick asks. Sentient?
I don’t know. What I do know is that, somehow, it’s trying to tell us something.
It’s some sort of trick to pretend our house is haunted so we’ll drop the price.
How could anyone do that? 
Both of us can’t be imagining the same thing.
It’s real, Mick. Real.

It’s evening as Bianca and Mick anxiously enter the dining room, to see if the mirror is back to ‘normal’. They gasp. They both nurse babies. Those are our babies! Bloody hell! 
The scene changes: first babies, then toddlers, teens and finally smiling adults holding their own children. Unbelievable, Mick says, forty years in thirty seconds.
The image changes. Look, Bianca says, Wonderful, all our friends. Even though everyone’s laughing, they’re stuck in a freeze frame and there’s no sound.
Silent friends, Mick laughs. When were they ever quiet? Those are our streamers, and our lighted candles on the mantelpiece. The wooden beams are just like you always do them, wrapped in holly, ivy and mistletoe. 
The dogs are asleep on the hearth in front of a wood fire. Bianca laughs. And just look at our table: food, fruit, wines, cheese, crackers, a pudding, and sparkling glasses. The mirror has memory; it holds the memories that we’ve forgotten.
It’s all our Christmases that have ever been in this room all rolled into one, Mick says. He looks at Bianca, Do you agree? She nods. They kiss. On the count of three.
We’re staying put for good and all, the couple announce.
The scene bursts into life. The cheers are deafening. 

In the mirror Bianca and Mick see themselves just as they are. 
Thank you, mirror. Happy Christmas.

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 Bed

Posted on by
Reply

Ray lies on a hospital bed in a corridor next to the entrance of A&E; each time the door opens he endures a blast of freezing air. It’s four o’clock in the morning and he’s yet to see a doctor. He feels sorry for himself; it’s no place to be with Christmas and Covid in the air. As he climbs out of bed, to go to the toilet, the bed issues a melodic sequence of multiple squeaks. Ray laughs as he inspects the bed, sees how old and battered it is and sings, Any old iron? Any, any old iron? 

A passing nurse calls, You should be asleep after that sedative we gave you.
Instead, Ray explores.
Another corridor is empty except for a boy sitting bolt upright in bed, wide awake, sobbing and pleading, Daddy! I want to go home.
Ray asks, Shall I call you a nurse?
Daddy, you came at last, the boy whimpers. 
Sorry, son, I’m not your daddy.
The boy screams, Daddy! Daddy!
The same nurse comes running. I told you, get back to bed before you pass out!

Reluctantly, Ray does as he’s been told. As soon as his head hits the pillow he falls into a deep sleep and dreams.

In an enormous sports hall, innumerable blue hospital privacy screens on wheels, are in constant movement like the sails of myriad sailing boats caught in a raging storm. Ray finds the sound of screens and beds ricocheting one against another, the screeching of wheels, the constant noise of ventilators, shouted conversations, sobbing, cries of distress and even shouts of man overboard, frightening. He goes on. Boris Johnson and Matt Hancock play badminton with a shuttlecock dripping blood. Ray wonders why there are no stains on Johnson’s and Hancock’s clothes while spectating female and male patients lying on hospital beds are drenched in blood. Alarms ring.
An elderly male voice interrupts his nightmare, asking, Were you taking the piss singing, Any old iron?
Who said that? Ray asks.
I did. 
Who?
Your bed. Can I sing along? You look dapper from your napper to your feet, the bed sings.
Bloody hell, beds don’t talk, let alone, sing.
You’d be surprised. When there’s too many sick folks, they dig me out of the store and here I am, an emergency bed. In 1948, when the NHS was founded, it took over ownership of 480,000 beds: I’m one of those beds. We used to sing lullabies to get the bairns to sleep. It was another of Aneurin Bevan’s miracles. Do you know how many NHS beds there are now?
No.
In March 2024, 141,903.
Jesus, I need cheering up.
Let’s sing a carol.

Hello, Raymond, I’m your doctor, Sandra, time to wake up. You’ve been dreaming and singing Good King Wenceslas; it was odd, it sounded like a duet. Anyway, we’ll find you a nice new bed to make you comfortable.
Sorry, but this is the best bed I’ve ever had.
Thanks Ray, the bed whispers. 

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.

In The Dark

Posted on by
Reply

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.