Dogs of War

In the British press, there are often ‘accidental’ photographs of dogs included in the images of the horrors of Putin’s war crimes and invasion of the Ukraine. Many dogs have been abandoned by their owners who have fled or been killed, ending up as starving strays, with some seen gnawing at human corpses. Bohdan wonders if they’re Putin’s Dogs of War. For fear of being thought a superstitious lunatic, he doesn’t share the horrifying notion that some dogs are the Devil’s incubi.

 Ever since the invasion, Anichka and her husband Bohdan have had one priority – protecting their seven-year old son, Danilo. A recently adopted, large stray all-white Borzoi they call Anton, has become part of the family; dog and boy adore one another. 

In the late afternoon Bohdan sits just inside his front door, his rifle resting across his thighs, in case Russians come. Anton, gently snores lying on Bohdan’s feet, who sleeps and dreams of standing in the family’s vegetable garden. The sun shines. Beyond the garden wall a gentle breeze caresses the fields of ripe wheat, rolling and swaying like a glimmering sea from an imaginary golden age. The high-pitched screams of swifts fill the air. A sudden murmuration of starlings obscures the sun, then morphs, with a puff of black smoke, into a tank grinding forward, crushing the wheat, demolishing the garden wall and destroying a greenhouse full of tomatoes. A large brown mongrel sits next to the gun turret. 

Bohdan wakens to the sound of dogs barking and hears Danilo shouting, Dad! Dad! Anton’s gone. Danilo dashes outside as Bohdan, half-awake, struggles to his feet, switches off his rifle’s safety catch and shouts, For god’s sake, wait for me! Anichka runs past him.

Outside, Bohdan is aghast; it’s as he dreamt, but now five soldiers sit on the tank, laughing and cheering, as the mongrel and Anton fight. Danilo grabs a spade from the porch and runs to the two fighting dogs. His parents scream, Stop! Bohdan takes aim. Anichka hits Bohdan’s arm, You’ll kill our boy. Danilo struggles to swing the spade at the mongrel but misses. Anton growls, bares his teeth, and jumps at Danilo who screams as the dog buries its teeth in his arm. Again, Bohdan takes aim. Stop! Anichka shouts, that dog’s helping Danilo. The mongrel attacks Anton forcing him to release Danilo. Anton, snarling, goes for Danilo. The mongrel buries its teeth in Anton’s shoulder. Somehow, Anton breaks free and once again attacks Danilo as the mongrel protects him. Dad! Kill him, Anton hates me. Bohdan fires his rifle. Anton drops dead. 

The soldiers cheer. You got the right dog. The mongrel licks the boy. 
It’s only then that Bohdan realises it’s a Ukrainian tank. 
Another soldiers says, We were looking for that white dog; it made friends with kids before killing them. That’s one fewer of Putin’s dogs. 
Anichka takes Danilo inside to dress his wounds, followed by the mongrel.
Another soldier adds, White doesn’t always mean good.


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.

A Pawn Shop

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.


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 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.

Poem to Putin

If my tears could make a laurel wreath of peace
For you to wear upon your troubled head
Giving victory to peace instead of war
If my breath could make a gale of love
Blowing doves of peace inside Kremlin’s walls
Defying hate and Lenin’s disgusted grimace
Ending forever your fear of love
If my eyes would let you see the truth 
Freeing Russians from your mendacious misrule
Where you portray genocide as God’s cause
Where in Ukraine you wage your holy war
While at your devil’s table you gorge 
On rape, murder and pillage and smile at the feast
And what will history make of you?
Will your Stalinist madness be excused 
By a malignant melanoma of hate in your head?

No, you shall not escape, even in defeat
You will always be known as evil beyond belief
Not in Hitler’s camps but in a land once at peace 
Now reduced to ruin for your fantasy’s sake
Your war is lost all you’ve won is contempt.