Bijoux

Posted on December 14, 2025 by Phil Cosker writer

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.

When Ghosts Gather

Posted on September 28, 2025 by Phil Cosker writer

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 August 3, 2025 by Phil Cosker writer

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

The Flock

Posted on April 13, 2025 by Phil Cosker writer

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.

A Pawn Shop

Posted on November 27, 2022 by Phil Cosker writer

Once upon a time in Russia there was a very nondescript KGB spy called Putin. He had expensive tastes and supplemented his meagre spy income by driving a cab at night. His passengers were often drunk and either vomited, pissed or shat in his cab; soon, he hated everyone and thought, This can’t go on. If I’m to be rich and feared as a supremely powerful dictator, I need help – but who from? The solution came to him in a flash: Satan. He falls asleep at the car’s wheel to the smell of vomit. He dreams.

He sees himself lighting a candle in St Basil’s Cathedral, and hears his prayer of supplication to Lucifer. Out of the intense darkness an old priest, smoking a cigarette and wearing a cassock covered in ash, approaches Putin, who stammers, Are you really …

Yes, I’m Lucifer, he says as he unlocks a heavy door. They descend into an ancient crypt filled with the bright light of flaming braziers. Lucifer leans forward into the flames, and lights the cigarette in his mouth; his skin smoulders.
Putin sees glass demi-johns stored on shelves. What are these?
They are labelled.
Putin reads: Stalin, Hitler, Pol Pot, and Genghis Khan. Something like a tiny hurricane twister is swirling inside the jars. Are they trying to escape?
Lucifer laughs. They pawned their souls for power and lost all moral sense.
Do they get them back? Putin asks.
Lucifer almost chokes with laughter. They failed to achieve my ambition of destroying God’s world; so they remain here everlastingly trapped in their unrequited rage. I’ve been watching you for some time Vladimir, and I think you might be the man to realise my dreams.
What do you want me to do?
Create hell on earth.

Putin wakes to find Lucifer sitting next to him in the taxi. A drunk staggers towards the car and pisses on the windscreen. Lucifer points at the drunk who explodes. The windscreen wipers clunk as they push fragments of bloody flesh aside.
Putin retches.
Wimp, Satan chuckles. Shall we visit your mother?
You know where she lives?
Of course.
Why?
I have a test for you.
She’ll be asleep at this time of night.
All the better.

Back in the crypt. Lucifer shows Putin a demi-john.
Is that my soul?
Yes, you passed the test; your mother never knew what was happening.
I didn’t know I was capable of doing such a thing, Putin says, crossing himself.
Compassion? Stop that nonsense. Crossing yourself is pointless. God doesn’t give a shit about you. Listen. You will provoke the West over and over again as you try to bring the USSR back to life. America will destroy Moscow with a nuclear weapon. You will retaliate.
You really want to destroy the earth?
It’s better to reign in hell than serve in heaven. So we’ll make hell here. It’s too late for second thoughts, Vladimir. Remember, I have your conscience in a jar.

© Phil Cosker 2022
Phil Cosker has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved; no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.

Returned to sender

Posted on September 25, 2022 by Phil Cosker writer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oi, you up there.‘

A Familiar Dog

Posted on March 23, 2022 by Phil Cosker writer

The dog is large, long-haired, and with deep-set black eyes. He sits on a huge heap of rubble near bombed-out apartments in Grozny, Chechnya. An elderly woman, struggling to carry a large hessian sack, is passing. She sees the dog, sets down the sack, picks up a piece of jagged concrete and hurls it at the beast, shouting, Get away! You brought us this! The dog snarls. The woman looses her footing, falls and hits her head; blood flows from a deep gash in her head. The dog watches her die. She’s still. He climbs down from his vantage point, sniffs the dead woman, lifts his back leg and pisses on her. He walks away into a city razed to the ground by endless Russian bombing.

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Property

Posted on November 14, 2021 by Phil Cosker writer

It is the evening of June 7^th 1983. Archie and his wife, Rosy, are watching a Conservative Party Election Broadcast on their twenty-two inch PYE television in the front room of their council house on Orchard Park Estate in Hull.

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Hypocrisy

Posted on April 6, 2020 by Phil Cosker writer

Today I’m going to try and be more measured – fuck knows why.

Okay, hypocrisy.

The government, made of sugar (an aftermath of the slave trade) and all things nice, is supported by Tory MPs who have consistently voted to (or turned a blind eye to):

Privatising the NHS
Voted not to increase NHS nurses’ pay
Slashed NHS and Social Care budgets
Introduced Universal credit as a punishment system for the poor and oppressed
Increase the spending on Mental health services and done nothing
Privatising the NHS
Promised to build 14 new hospitals (excluding the Nightingale)
Lauded their radical solutions of support for the aged but, done nowt Celebrated austerity

Need I go on?

But all is well – their coronavirus plans and promises are in disarray – but nevertheless there they all were last night – including the bilious bibulous bonker bastard Boris outside number 10 – clapping his little fat piggy paws in praise of the NHS he sought to destroy – until he needed it!

Until the government needed to cling to their privilege and let us die on their behalf.

In the First World War soldiers going into battle weren’t properly armed. In this ‘war’ the NHS isn’t either. Why not? It couldn’t be because soldiers and nurses are predominantly working class and therefore expendable? Just as the old and infirm have been seen by Cummings and his preening poodle, shag-a-lot, Johnson, as natural waste. Or are these Tory c…ts just totally fucking useless?

Answers on an email please.

But they say ‘We love the NHS’.

Would I be correct in thinking that what they mean is – Fuck, we’re in the shit, and the only way out of not losing power is to come up with new bollocks about our love of the NHS?

Is this hypocrisy?

Capitalism, and in its neo-liberal iteration, is not for the benefit of all, but for the benefit, the PROFIT, of those who – currently – own the means of material and intellectual production.

Doctors of medicine, metaphorically, sign the Hippocratic oath to care for the sick.

The lickspittles of capitalism, sign with the broken bones and the blood of all they oppress, their Capitalist oath, asserting their rights, exercising their duty, to exploit all in pursuit of profit and extol their virtues via the Daily Mail with the goodness of their hearts.

Money, money, money, that’s what they adore.

And I think to myself what a wonderful world.

I have learnt that my rants become loquacious.

So, let me be focussed.

Hypocrisy?

Until we call them out. Tell them they lie. Until we take responsibility, then we have nothing to blame but ourselves as we complain of our chains.

We have moved beyond what Lenin said – arm the proletariat, not because it needs to defeat the ruling class but because it needs to defeat itself.

We need to defeat our own cynicism.

To do this we must abhor hypocrisy.

Make the world anew. Now is the time. The last time?

Unless we act we are the problem.

No ecocide.

For the new better abnormal normal.

Lou Reed & Trump

Posted on January 23, 2019 by Phil Cosker writer

You know what? I miss Lou Reed. God, I miss him. I miss the songs he would have written about Trump. Just listen to his album ‘New York’ (1989): it’s all there, just change the names, and the malevolent spectre of Trump lurks behind every wonderful lyric.

Phil Cosker

Writer & photographer

Tag Archives: Politics