Tag Archives: Phil Cosker Writer

Constance and Virgil

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Is that our coach? Constance asks. It’s all yellow and green just like the …
… one we went to Bognor in for our honeymoon, Virgil finishes.
Wonderful! Where did you find it?
Well, if anything, it found me.
Oh, an adventure, how lovely! Constance says. It’s not one of your make-believes, is it?
Look at him.
The coach driver, dressed in a smart navy-blue suit, doffs his shiny peaked cap, revealing an impressive head of coiffured black Brylcreamed hair. Welcome to the famous Nostalgia Tours, a company limited by time, he says. Your seats are at the front. 

Seated on board, Constance observes, seems we’re the only passengers. Bit odd, isn’t it?
A result of Covid, perhaps? After all, it did for us. 
Is it an expensive trip? Constance asks as the coach pulls away.
I thought it reasonable.

Constance opens her eyes, Gosh, that was quick. Are we there yet?
That brings back memories. You were asleep.

The bus halts. Constance and Virgil stand in a broad village street of old stone houses.
Where did our coach go? Constance asks. How will we get back?
Maybe we won’t, Virgil says, kissing his wife on the cheek. Let’s look at our old house.
As they walk, arm in arm, an unexpected shower falls. Is it snowing? She asks.
It’s dust, Virgil sneezes. Here we are. Once, where we belong, to mis-quote Jo Cocker.
Passing through the wooden farm-style gate they enter a garden. 
The falling dust becomes a haze. Taking a deep breath, Virgil blows it away.
There it is! Our garden. Constance cries out in delight.
Birdsong fills the air. Collared doves, as ever, cry, it’s awful. 
Bloody doves. It’s beautiful. But why is there a soundtrack? It’s like an ad for Cartland’s romantic slush. Across the front of the sunlit stone house a multitude of white roses bloom.How can that be? she asks. It’s the wrong time of year.
Virgil looks at his watch. It’s stopped. Oh dear, oh dear, like the rabbit, we can’t be late for our important date.

Constance and Virgil stand in the churchyard of St Aidan’s. No mourners are at the side of an open grave where the celebrant delivers the blessing.
If that’s our grave, where are our children? Constance asks.  
No one allowed. So sad. 
Bloody Covid! I’ve tried to forget all that suffering.
We were lucky to go together.
Look! That’s our coach driver. Constance laughs. He’s bald as a coot. That teddy-boy look was a wig. And now he’s a vicar. Her tone changes. Hang on, they’re lowering in our coffins and I’m going in first. I’m not having that!
Why ever not?
I always preferred being on top.
That’s just our mortal bodies. 
I would still like to be on top.
Shall we find a hayrick? Virgil asks.
Do you think we could?
Only one way to find out.
You always were a randy sod, Constance laughs.

The vicar waves his wig and blows a kiss.

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

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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.

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.

Treats

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With thanks to Liz.

Sister and brother, Lizbeth and Henry, stand across the road from Dairy Cottage, on Main Street, Somerton. Their Gran’s home is a long low listed-building with white walls and golden thatch.

I see they’ve finally got it up, Lizbeth says, seeing the sign, For Sale.
Things were always slow down here in Somerset, Henry replies. 
Better not let the locals hear you saying that.
Let’s go in, Lizbeth suggests.

The cottage is dusty and cold.
Are you still happy putting all her possessions in storage? Henry asks.
Yes. But it’s so upsetting, as if we were trying to say she’d never existed. I need time to decide what we should do.
Our kids will want a look.
They won’t want brown furniture; it’s out of date, Lizbeth says.
I can still smell her lavender perfume.
Me too.
Is that coffee still warm in your thermos? Henry asks.
Dust rises as they sit on the long slate bench in the dairy. They sip the coffee.
When was our last crazy summer holiday here with Gran? Henry asks.
I was ten.
I was nine, so, 1955.
So long ago, Lizbeth sighs. 
How old was she that summer? 
I’ll go and get the old family bible; by the way, can I take it home with me today?
Of course.
Lizbeth returns carrying the enormous, illustrated bible, and blows off the dust. She carefully turns the pages. Here we are. She was born in 1877. So, she was 78 in ’55. She was fun.
Or, maybe, crazy.
Not crazy. She lost the plot after that holiday and Mum and Dad said it wasn’t safe for her to look after us on her own again, Lizbeth says.
It made me sad at the time, but, I guess, mistaking beeswax for honey on toast wasn’t a great idea.
Or when the first supermarket in the village, the Coop, opened at the same time as Fish Fingers were launched; she thought frozen fish fingers were just like a ‘99’; she gave them us as a treat stuck in ice-cream cones full of vanilla ice-cream. 
Somehow, she didn’t realise they were fish, Henry laughs. 
She tried hers and thought it was a delicacy; we loved her, so, we ate on. Mum and Dad didn’t believe us.
But I had the evidence! I’d taken a photo on my little Kodak, Henry says. I miss her so much; we hardly ever saw her again after that summer.
Shall we go and see her grave? Lizbeth asks.

As they arrive at the grave, Lizbeth gasps, Oh, Henry! I never thought you’d make it.
I am a sculptor, after all.
They hug.
A beautifully carved ice-cream cone stands on a plinth, glowing in the sun. A rectangle of brown marble sticks out of the cone, with ‘Fish Fingers’ engraved at the top and ‘Gran was a real treat’, engraved in gold beneath. Do you think she’d be pleased? Henry asks.

If we stand very still, we’ll hear her laughing right now.

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.

A Journey

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Fast asleep, Kristof dreams. It is dark. Out of the darkness, a man, wearing a two-piece suit, joins him. Are you ready Kristof? He asks.
For what?
I’m your guide.
Don’t I know you? Kristof asks. 
Perhaps. Time to go. 
Where?
To places you’ve not seen.

Where are we? Kristof asks.
A bedroom in a care home.
Can the man in the wheelchair see us?
No.
Why is he sobbing?
Alwyn’s been broken by care less ness. Once he had a carer who came to his small bungalow each day. This was deemed too expensive. The carer was sacked; he’d learnt Alwyn’s chaotic language, was able to understand him, and interpret on his behalf. Alwyn’s disease means he can’t write and, without comprehensible speech, he’s imprisoned in his abject loneliness in room 79. They call him ‘mutey’; he’s forty-eight years of age; he’s expected to have a long life imprisoned in himself.
Enough, Kristof says.

Not yet, the man says. Meet Cyril and Mags in their bedroom in the Green Pastures retirement home. They believe their only purpose is to die in comfort with as little pain as possible; they had hoped Covid would have ‘seen them off’. 
Who’s that woman who’s just come out of the bathroom? Kristof asks.
Their new carer, Queenie. She believes it’s her duty to try and lift them from their depression through kindness, and her trust in her Jesus. 
Where you from? Cyril demands.
Tooting, Queenie replies.
But you’re black, Mags objects. Where you really from?
Right, Cyril shouts, you can piss off! We never came here to be amongst blacks.
I’m not having no blacks wiping my arse, Mags adds.
I can’t stand much more of this, Kristof whispers.

It’s three in the morning in the area immediately surrounding St Paul’s Cathedral. 
Why are there hundreds of small tents pitched everywhere? Kristof asks.
They’re the homes of rough sleepers. Perhaps they thought they’d be safe being nearer to the house of their God? Can you hear heavy boots thumping on the ground, van doors slamming, sirens blaring and men shouting? 
Yes, It’s the police. What the hell are they doing? Kristof asks.
Evicting the sleepers, destroying their tents and stealing their possessions.
I didn’t know about this.
Suella Braverman opined that the poor living in tents were making a lifestyle choice. The only thing to do was for those who did that should be prosecuted for a criminal offence. As ever, the cops thought they had license to do what they liked – before the law was enacted. 

Why are you wearing my best suit? Kristof asks. 
Ah, now you recognize me? 
Not sure. We’re close aren’t we?
Once. Now we’re estranged. You put your conscience aside.
You’re me as well, Kristof gasps, the truth dawning.
Yes, the part of you that made you human – conscience. 
But I’m not responsible for the things you’ve just shown me.
Ignorance and laziness are no excuse for careless inhumanity, Conscience says.

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.

A Forfeit

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It’s the cusp of Winter and Spring. Abundant silver birch saplings, their teenage siblings and maturing elders are not yet in leaf, their trunks glistening white in the afternoon sun. Loreta finds the trees beautiful and takes a photograph. She walks on through the wood and emerges onto Spalford high street and fixes a notice to a fence – ‘Woodland for Sale’. 

Settled in the empty bar of The Wig, the pub where she will spend the night, she downloads the photographs she’s just taken onto her iPad. She trembles with excitement as she enlarges the image again and again, sits back, and thunderstruck, thinks, What the hell is that? At the right of the frame there’s something, caught in a beam of sunlight amidst the trees. The creature is tall, has a huge horse like head, around which a ruff of white branches shimmers. Its single eye stares straight at her; she blanches.

An elderly man enters the bar where Loreta is the only customer. Welcome, young lady. I heard we had a rare visitor to this god-forsaken hole. I’m Grenville, 
Hi, I’m Loreta. Join me for a drink?
Thanks, I will. A half of bitter would be good.
Loreta returns to her table with two beers.
You live here, Grenville? 
One of the few left.
Can I show you something that’s bugging me?
Loreta shows him the photograph of the creature. What is that?
Folklore has it that he’s a male dryad that guards our wood. Some say he makes folk disappear. 
Bit far-fetched, don’t you think?
Maybe. Why did you put up that for sale notice? 
That was quick.
Word soon gets around. So why?
The regional plan has designated these woods as unmanaged, not qualifying as an amenity, not economically viable, and will be sold for housing to the highest bidder.
They’re not for sale.
It’s approved government policy. People need homes not woods.
And what of beauty?
We must forfeit things, even beauty, for the common good.
How magnanimous! Grenville stands. It’s time for me to go.
I’m sorry I’ve offended you. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.
Maybe. 

Later, in her bedroom, Loreta wraps up in a duvet against the cold and studies the photograph of the dryad. Finally, exhausted, she sleeps. 

Waking, in darkness, the room’s lights no longer work. Wind howls in the trees. Astonished, she smells rich loam. She sees the dryad has vanished from the photograph. She scrolls back and forth; it’s gone. 
A haunting laugh from the darkness frightens her. 
Who’s there? 
The creature lurches forward, its huge skeletal wooden body creaking. It’s one staring eye terrifies her. 
What are you? she whimpers.
I am the wood, and the wood is me. 

In the bright light of a new day, Grenville pats the trunk of a silver birch. You’re safe now, Loreta: a thing of beauty, and no more stress, ever.

Days later, Loreta is reported missing. The police find no evidence that Loreta had ever been in Spalford.  

Delayed Gratification 

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It’s Christmas Eve and George, aged eighteen, uses the master key he’s ‘borrowed’ from his aunt and uncle’s desk to open the rear security door of their cinema – The Tower. Sighing with relief as he locks the door behind him, he hopes that Lauren will keep the promise she’d made when she first appeared the previous year.

When George was six, on Christmas Eve, his parents, Florrie and Reggie, entered the cinema and were never seen again. A murder investigation ensued but the mystery was never solved. After they vanished, George lived with his aunt and uncle who were bitter that George was dumped on them. They ensured he became enraged that his parents had abandoned him. He was told they were fanatical film fans and would have given anything to be part of Hollywood. His aunt gave him an autographed photograph from Lauren Bacall, that said, “If you can make it to Hollywood, I’m sure I can get you jobs as extras, with love and best wishes, Lauren.” 

Who’s Lauren Bacall, he asked Aunt Agnes.
Film star and distant cousin of your father.
Do you think she could help me find them?
Agnes laughed until she cried.

George was seventeen when he first stole the keys and tried to contact Lauren Bacall by begging for help in front of the screen for hours. Finally, she appeared, and he told his story. Tonight, he’s desperate she’ll keep her promise. 

The screen lightens, but no flickering light shines from the projection booth. His mouth dries as ghostly shades of grey and black loop and swirl on the screen. His heart pounds. A human shape evolves in the centre of the screen. Franz Waxman’s overture for “To Have and Have Not” begins.

Lauren, you’ve come back.
Said I would, George. 
Why did you promise to help me last year?
I felt guilty; if I hadn’t offered help, they might not have scrammed. And you were so full of hope. 
Hope is all I’ve got.
Hope is an incredible, wonderfully demented thing. Hope endures even when life is not what you expect it to be. 

The screen stretches, bulges, seems about to tear apart as unseen forces push against the barrier. The fabric distends. The disembodied heads and hands of his parents burst through.
At last! George shouts as he climbs up on the stage beneath the screen.
We’re not allowed to come all the way through. If we do, we’ll be punished and never be amidst the stars again. Can you forgive us? Florrie pleads.
We missed you, George, Reggie says.
Liar!   
Come with us, Florrie says. You’ll love Hollywood.
George grabs his parents’ hands and, terrified, they scream, as their son, using more strength than he knew he had, rips them through the screen onto the stage. 

Happy Christmas, Lauren says. I kept my promise.
Thank you. 
George gasps as his parents transmute into unravelling spools of 35mm film that burst into flames. He stamps them out; his revenge complete.

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 Aviator

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5

Manfred, known as Fred to his friends, hates shopping and supermarkets. Fred’s trolley is empty as a woman carrying an empty basket staggers towards him. Christ, you’re a cracker, he thinks. She wears a startling multi-coloured capacious check dress that looks as if it may fall off her at any moment. Her grey and white hair is a riot of unruliness like an electrocuted character in a comic. Her intelligent face beguiles him. 

She stops in front of him. Who you gawping at? she laughs. Before he can reply she continues, My husband says he wants a new woman, like a new carpet to walk on. I told him to fuck off, she shouts. 
Shoppers ‘tut’.
Fancy a coffee in the café? Fred asks.
You chatting me up?
Would you mind?
If he wants a new fucking woman, I can have a new fucking man.

Fred brings their coffees to a table for two.
I’m Fred, he says. Short for Manfred.
Manfred? You don’t look like no German.
My dad was obsessed by Manfred von Richthofen, a German fighter pilot in the first world war. He was the ace of aces, winning over eighty dog fights in the sky.
Pull the other one; dogs don’t fight in the sky.
It’s daft. What’s your name?
Amy. She was an aviator from HulI. I often has this flying dream. Can I tell it you?
Fred nods.
I’m a bird, alone in a cage, then I’m standing in a field of deep green ground ivy. I run. The going’s tough. My clawed feet keep catching in the ivy. I fall. I’m a bird, I shout. I should be flying not running. I can’t remember how to fly, but I know I can, cos I’m a bird. Under my dress, this dress, I’ve grown feathers. I run, frantically flapping my arms, my dress flapping, like one of them windsock things. My arms ain’t wings. I rest. I start again. I run, I stumble, trip; my dress blows up in the wind with me knickers all on show. I’m desperate to fly, Amy starts to weep. I want to fly before I die, she sobs. Can’t afford it.
Hold my hand, Fred says. It’s okay. Come with me, I have an idea.

It’s raining outside. Two male security guards, in hi-vis jackets, run across the car park shouting, Hoi! You can’t do that. We’ll call the police. Amy sits in a shopping trolley as Fred races around the car park. Amy screams, Wheeeee. The hi-vis jackets lose ground as Fred pushes Amy’s trolley out onto the exit road. Christ, one says, he’s bleeding fit for an old git. Off his trolley, the other laughs.

Amy shouts, I’m flying. 

As they reach the top of the hill Fred jumps in beside her. They rattle down the slope laughing, until the trolley hits a curb. They lie on a grass verge lost in hysterical laughter.
I think I’ve found me a new man, Amy says.

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.