Tag Archives: writing fiction

Wishes

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An enormous bright orange carp languishes on an ornate leather chaise longue, its scales luminous under the glowing light, oddly pinkish green, of fluorescent Grolux tubes on the ceiling above the aquarium. Smoke gently seeps from the carp’s gills as it smokes a Black Russian Sobranie cigarette held in an ivory cigarette holder. There is no natural light. The tank is twenty feet long, ten feet high and two feet deep; its rear wall a painted diorama of Atlantis. A shoal of forty midnight-black mollys cruise between the elegant columns of a Greek temple. Sparkling bluish-green and carmine dotted lyretails flick through a clump of altermanthena. A small shoal of penguin fish hang tail down in the shade of a giant red plastic ludwigia, while another group scurry away. 

The carp’s face is bathed in a look of longing. Oh shit, it thinks, I shouldn’t have wished for this. I’m a fish out of water. I wish I was at home in water. 

Vivid red swordtails dance arabesques around the pinnacle of an Eifel Tower. A submerged water wheel slowly turns in the slipstreams of minute x-ray fish. A group of giant danios rest and scrutinise, pop-eyed, the charms of a large white, pink and green plasterwork mermaid. Harlequins rush across open space as lemon tetras dive past combomba. The only other sound in the room, other than the bubbling aeration of water pumps, is the sound of the carp puffing the last of its cigarette. 

The carp slaps its caudal fin up and down on the chaise longue, and calls, in a popping hollow sound as if it were still under water, Cigarette! Cigarette! Now!

Moments later, a skeleton dressed in blue silk pantaloons and a cerise spotted puffer jacket struggles through the ankle length sea green carpet toward the carp. You do know that smoking will kill you? the skeleton asks, And chain smoking will hasten your death.
Be a good minion and light me another ciggie, will you? the carp asks proffering its mouth to have the cigarette holder removed, emptied, refilled and lighted. Argh, my lady nicotine, the carp sadly sighs, oozing smoke. I wish I was dead.
I’ll be back in a minute, the skeleton says. I have a surprise for you. 

Standing in front of the aquarium, the skeleton clicks out the head of the humerus from the scapula and, gripping the shaft of the humerus, with his bony right hand, pounds the glass wall of the aquarium. For the first few milliseconds everything is in slow motion until the wall of glass explodes under the weight of the water. The torrent hits the carp on its chaise longue, and hurls them both across the room. Fish, in their, hundreds die. The carp lies dead, embedded with shards of glass amidst some thrashing brightly coloured fish. 

Beware of what you wish for, the skeleton says, pleased that two wishes have come true at once.

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.

The Unicorn

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In 1956 JR and George are ten years old and the best of friends; their ‘playground’ is Stapleford woods. It’s a bright sunny day, when, near an ancient oak, they discover some spots of a silver liquid shimmering and sparkling on the grass.
Is it paint? George asks.
Dunno. There’s no tin. Bad people dump tins of paint. 
What’s them? JR asks, pointing at tiny silver footprints amongst the silver spots.
George takes a closer look. Too small for a deer. Is it fairies? 
Fairies? JR asks. You don’t believe in fairies, do you?
Nar, that’s a girlie thing, but it’s a mystery. We could pretend we’re detectives and follow the trail of spots.
We don’t have to pretend, cos they’re real, JR says.
They follow the trail. 
You excited? JR asks.
Yeah. Wonder what we’ll find.
If it was a hurt animal, its blood it should be red not silver, JR observes.
If it’s bleeding, it could need help.
Do magical creatures bleed? What did Mr Southall say?
About what? George asks.
The Royal coat of arms has got a unicorn on it. He said it was mythical.
Teacher said they was as rare as hens’ teeth, George says. One of them girls said a unicorn has silver blood.
The trail leads them to a leafy glade. JR stares at the grass. Blood’s stopped, he announces. You search over in the bushes and I’ll go down to see if it’s at the bottom of the field.
George sets off as JR disappears into thick undergrowth. After a few minutes, he stops dead in his tracks. As he stares at an open tin of silver paint, he hears George shouting, Any luck?
JR hesitates. No, nothing here, he says and carefully buries the tin in undergrowth.
Back in the glade, George looks downhearted. 
Cheer up; it’s been an adventure, JR says. It’ll be shy, or hiding. We gotta promise each other to keep our Unicorn secret; we don’t want him frightened off. 
George uses his penknife he makes a tiny cut in their index fingers. 
They rub their bloodied fingers together and swear silence.

Many years later they return to the village to celebrate their seventieth birthdays and agree that they’ll return to the glade for the last time.

Did you ever think the Unicorn was here? JR asks as they stand in the leafy glade.
Did you? 
Not really. But I wanted to, JR says, wishing he could take back his lie.
The two men turn. In a bright pool of sunlight a unicorn whinnies and nods his horn. Get a photo, quick, JR says. 
Using his phone camera George videos the Unicorn.
Let’s see, JR asks.
George presses play. Both men look down at the screen.
George shouts in triumph, We got him! We got evidence.
They look up; the Unicorn has gone.
Looking back at the screen they watch the images of the Unicorn disappear.

I need to tell you something, George, JR sighs.

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 Bowl of Olives

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Arman, a Syrian refugee, spends his eightieth birthday in a tent in ‘The Jungle’, in Calais. He sits alone on a white plastic garden chair next to a suitcase wrapped in cellophane. It’s freezing cold, but his anger sustains him as he asks himself his perennial question, How could the enemy destroy acres and acres of olive groves in Idlib province, attacking our culture and pushing us into starvation? 

I should be pleased. I am pleased, but I’m too old to be a refugee, an asylum seeker, or a survivor. If the Russian air strikes had been successful, I would be dead, should be dead, buried in the rubble that was our family home. I can still taste the concrete dust in my mouth, feel it in my eyes that even my tears cannot wash away. What is the purpose of my survival? My olive trees are destroyed. Only my granddaughter, Saabirah, lives and she is with child. I have nothing but my love for her and the child to come. There was no one else alive to protect her. 

Does my hatred of Assam and Putin harm me more than them? I’m filled with sadness or, maybe, a sort of envy, that the West sees fit to fight Putin in the Ukraine but has done nothing to save Syria from the monsters of war, the barbarians, the murderers of children, the destroyers of the unborn, with their bombs, chemical weapons and terror. Envy? The thought disgusts me. 

Even as I sit here I can hear village women wailing above the freezing wind outside. Hear the children of neighbours calling out my grandson’s name, Kaashif. The frantic digging of shovels, voices from beyond the grave. They said it was a miracle that there wasn’t a mark on me; the mark is forever in my heart and for that there is no sticking plaster. They found Kaashif’s body; he was only thirteen, just becoming a man. All the time I was washing his dead body, I expected him to wake up and tell me it was all a game. It was no game. I came here to protect Saabirah and the baby. The traffickers took my money and here we are. 
You’ll be safe in England.
Is that you, Kaashif?
Yes, Grandpa. Do you remember when we picked olives and a man came and photographed us? I held the olives and leaves in a wooden bowl and you cupped my hands in your big hands. When the photographer showed us the picture on his camera, Mum was cross because our hands were so dirty. You laughed and asked how could they be clean; we are peasants. The photograph was beautiful.
Arman wipes tears from his eyes and gasps. On the upended suitcase there’s the same wooden bowl full of olives and leaves. He rubs his eyes. 
Happy birthday, Grandpa. 
Is it real?
It will always be real to you.
Where are you? Arman asks.
Unseen, but always near you. 

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.

Cabbage

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In pouring rain, Johno Jackson looks at the 1930s semi where he’ll lodge until he finds a flat. Standing in the porch, he dumps his dripping backpack and rings the doorbell. The intense smell of boiling cabbage hits him as the door opens; stepping back in shock, he unnecessarily asks, Is that cabbage I can smell?
It’s your dinner, Valerie replies. Are you my new lodger?
Yes, I’m Johno, and you’re Mrs Valerie Alsop?
Val, please.
Can I leave my coat out here to dry?
I didn’t expect you to have such long hair.
Is that a problem?
Only if you use all the hot water washing it clean.
I don’t wash my dreadlocks.
But you’re not coloured.
I’m like you, coloured white.
Come in and I’ll show you the room.

Here it is, she announces, opening a door.
Wow, Johno says, I wasn’t expecting a double bed.
Every man needs a double bed, Valerie says.
To his embarrassment, Johno finds himself flushing red as he sees a folded nightdress on one of the pillows. Jesus, he thinks, she’s propositioning me, but says, I’ll need a desk to work on.
The dining room is all yours. It’s just the two of us since my husband left. Tea’s at half-five. Just follow your nose and you’ll find the kitchen.
Just one thing, Johno says, is that your nightie on the bed?
Yes. Do you mind sharing?
It’s not what I was expecting.

In the kitchen the smell of cabbage is at its most intense. Johno struggles not to retch.
You look pale, Johno, it’ll be the excitement. Sit yourself down and pour us a glass of Blue Nun.
The glass of Blue Nun doesn’t help his nausea. 
Here we are, Valerie says. 
Johno stares at the plate of over-cooked potatoes, a pile of soggy pale cabbage and a grey slab of meat floating in a muddy puddle of gravy. He rushes out of the back door and vomits. 
When he’s finally back inside, Valerie asks, Are you ill? 
I’m vegetarian and the smell of cabbage makes me vomit. No offence, but your bed’s not for me. It’s the cabbage that’s to blame.

As Johno pulls on his still wet coat in the porch Valerie sobs in the kitchen. 

It’s almost dark and raining so hard that the road, beneath streetlights, appears as a fast moving river. In a terrace of once grand Georgian residences, one has been turned into The Scrumpy House. A dishevelled man of indeterminate age totters out and stands on the top of the stone steps leading down to the road. Looking perplexed, he smiles, nods, gives Johno the thumbs up, and dives onto the road, as Johno shouts, No! Cars screech and skid to a halt. A greengrocer’s lorry, swerving to avoid hitting a spinning car, sheds boxes of cabbages over the unconscious man. 

The man’s still breathing as Johno throws cabbages aside. Shit, Johno thinks, if you survive this, you’ll be a cabbage yourself. Fucking cabbages.

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.

Perseverance Terrace

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 ‘Wildwood’, the last house standing in Perseverance Terrace, is a solitary gravestone in a desert of broken bricks, rubble, dumped rubbish and smouldering bonfires and has become refuge to generations of ghosts who were born, lived and died there. 

Inside Wildwood, the kitchen is crammed full of ghosts; had they needed to breathe, many would have suffocated. Erasmus, their elected leader, explains, The only reason our home has survived this long is because of superstition. It only needs one man not to fear the retribution of ghosts and we’re gone, our safe haven lost. 

Lester Field, a mortal, enters the kitchen. 
Invader! The ghosts cry out. Alien! 
I’m no alien. I’m just a man looking for help, Lester says. Goodness, there are hundreds of you in here.
Who are you? Erasmus asks. How can you see us?
I’m Lester Field and blessed, or cursed, with the gift of seeing your world as well as mine. 
Why are you here?
I need a ghost. 
Why? Erasmus asks.
To take revenge. I discovered that Thacker, leader of the Council, received huge backhanders for selling off public land. I tried to get it on the news. I got fired. But I have an idea. Thacker’s son, Henry, died in mysterious circumstances, I want to find Henry’s ghost and the truth about his death. Can any of you help me find him? Lester asks.
The ghosts shimmer and groan.
Erasmus explains, They’re afraid that if they leave here there’ll be no coming back and they’ll be lost forever in time and space.
Are they right? Lester asks.
I don’t know. Do you think you can get Thacker to stop demolishing Wildwood?
I do.
Then I’ll come with you, Erasmus says.

Thacker, at home, sits in his snug sipping whisky when the door bangs open and his wife bursts in. It’s our boy, she cries. Henry’s back. 
You’re off your head, Lucy. He’s dead. 
His ghost isn’t, Lester says from the doorway. He’s told me the truth about his abuse and how he died.
What? Lucy demands. What abuse?
Henry enters.
What did your father do to you, darling? 
It’s a trick; there’s no such thing as ghosts, Thacker protests.
I’m here, aren’t I? Henry asks. You stop knocking down Wildwood, or I’ll tell Mum how I died.
You little shit! Thacker says.
And pay me the salary you owe me, Lester adds. Or I’ll tell the police.

It’s early morning as Lester, Erasmus and Henry cross the wasteland.
A giant wrecking ball swings from a crane and thunders into Wildwood. Thacker, standing by his Mercedes, smiles as he watches the demolition.
He lied, Henry says.
The ghosts erupt from Wildwood flying like wasps flung hither and thither in a maelstrom of roaring anger engulfing Thacker. His cries of agony pierce the eerie silence of the wasteland. The wailing ghosts vanish into the sky. Thacker lies dead on Wildwood’s threshold. 
Erasmus grips Lester’s hand. Something of a Pyrrhic Victory, I think.

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.

Below Stairs

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Jed and his wife, Margie, are taking breakfast in the kitchen. There’ll be thunder today, she says, I can always feel it coming.
Just like a dog. Jed is unaware of Margie’s look of contempt as he continues, If this arthritis pain in my fingers gets worse I won’t be able to use my shotgun.
The rabbits will be pleased. 
That’s all you can say? I’m suffering.
Might it all be in your head? Margie suggests.
That’s rich coming from you, hiding in the understairs cupboard afeared of thunder and lightning.
The doctor says it’s an abnormal hysterical reaction.
More like guilt.
The GP says I need therapy. 
Therapy? Bunkum, Jed says. I’m off to the auction at Louth market.
You mean you’re going to the Boar’s Head to get pissed again?
What’s it to you?
Nothing anymore.

Alone, and hearing thunder in the distance, Margie goes to a kitchen cupboard, removes writing paper and a ballpoint pen. She writes.

Jed
When we married we were full of hope and excitement. Then we had our son, John, and we were happy. Too soon, it all changed one night with that freak summer storm of thunder, lightning and torrential rain. The noise was terrifying. Our baby, our John, was splashing in the bath. All the windows and the kitchen door were open. Rain was just pouring in on that expensive carpet you’d bought for our bedroom. I should have taken him with me but I thought he’d be ok for just a few minutes. As I ran back to the bathroom, I knew everything was wrong. He’d drowned. I tried to kiss him back to life. The lightning kept flashing like God was pointing at me. You called me a murderer. The verdict was accidental death. You’ve never forgiven me. He was your boy. You’ve forgotten he was my boy too. I agree, I’m guilty.
What’s the point of going on? There isn’t one – not without John and being trapped in your hate as a skivvy. 
Margie.

As she leaves her letter leaning on the teapot on the kitchen table, the juggernaut of thunder crashes towards Margie; her skin prickles with fear.

Inside the large understairs cupboard she sits on a small wooden chair that Jed made for when his son was older. Jed’s loaded shotgun rests across Margie’s thighs. The thunder is ever nearer. Bright lightning flashes beneath the cupboard door. Her bitten lower lip bleeds. Massive claps of thunder shake the house. She imagines nursing John’s wet body. She picks up the shotgun, puts both barrels in her mouth but as she strains to reach the triggers, the door flies open. Jed leans into the cupboard waving her letter. This a suicide note? He shouts. Maggie swings toward him and fires both barrels at point blank range removing the top of his head. Covered in blood, brain and bone, she thinks, I just need one shell for me. Then I’ll be free.

No one hears the shot.

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.

The Bed

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I’m eighty-two and I want a bed of my own. My last bed, our marital bed, was bought by the husband for our golden wedding anniversary.

I loved the husband but it was only after he died that I realised that the house was a kind of man cave; hardly surprising when we had three sons – four men in the house for years and years, and just one woman – me: invisible until needed.

Men smell different to us; it’s not necessarily offensive, except, of course, when they fart. When the four of them were at it they had a conspiracy of silence never admitting their stink; they just laughed at my objections. My father had the ‘Man Smell’ and his was a mixture of tweed suits, pipe smoke and bad breath. The husband, near the end, smelt like an old comfortable armchair covered in well worn moquette, plus the slight smell of shoe polish from his habitual brogues and we always laughed at his futile habit of chewing mints to disguise his whisky breath.

The décor, in the man cave, is as drab as a downpour in November. I tried to put a bit of colour into our lives; I gave the boys lovely bright colours in their bedrooms. As they got older they complained that their mates would think they were fairies. You’d think having anything pink within fifty feet was an indication of incipient homosexuality. Bloody rubbish, and I said so, but the husband wasn’t having jolly chintz when he could have brown. Even a footstooll upholstered in William Morris’ ‘Strawberry Thief’ gave him a fit of the Heebie Jeebies. 

It’s about ownership. Not just the owning of me as me, but the me that’s expressed through the house. It’s never been ‘my’ house; it’s always been ‘their’ house, or ‘our’ house, but never mine.

I never wanted him forever dead; though God forgive me, there were times when I did. But he is, and now I’ve ordered a double bed of my own; a single divan would make feel that I was in a home. The curtains are ugly but they’ll keep me warm. The red and dark green Axminster carpet will see me out as will the rest of it, especially the endless brown furniture so polished you can see your face in it. I can’t be bothered anymore; I’m too old; it can all stay as it is.

The husband was bigger than me and over the years he’d made a big body-shaped hollow in the old mattress. I’d forgotten that just after he died, I used to sleep in his hollow; it was the nearest I could get to the husband and it fitted me nicely. It was a comfort; he was there but not there. 

I’ve now had my new bed for a couple of weeks. But I can’t sleep; there’s no husband hollow to curl up in. I’m cold and lonely. I should have kept that mattress. 

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.

Empathy

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Victor Beautule is known as the ‘coming man’ on his way to the top. He isn’t from a humble background nor has he the studied insouciance of the English aristocracy. He’s a man from the middle, the lower middle, and bitter about the elites he perceives above him. His contempt for the lower orders is unbounded. 

When Vanessa, one of his many girlfriends, whose heart he knowingly broke, accuses him of being emotionally illiterate, unable to put himself in the place of ‘the other’, and having the compassion of a stone gnome he takes this as a challenge. When he receives a personal email promoting a very expensive two-day residential course ‘Empathy for Success’ he sees a way of meeting that challenge and quickly enrols.

Once inside Wandelsham Hall, he discovers, with delight, that it’s even more exclusive than he had hoped: there are only four participants. The therapist, Melvyn, will lead the participants who are Rupert, Nigel, Victor and Natasha – no surnames are shared. Natasha looks vaguely familiar to Victor, but she’s not pretty enough for him to remember who she is, even though she reeks of entitlement. 

There are two sessions a day, structured around role plays based on counselling scenarios: each participant will be, in turn, ‘the sufferer’, the counsellor and observer. 

On Saturday, Victor first plays the role of ‘sufferer’. He’s pleased with his performance but worries he’s revealed too much of himself. Natasha plays the role of counsellor; her condescension, verging on boredom, irritates him, but he bites his tongue. Later, as an observer he thinks he’s done a fine job. Natasha, the other observer, tells him his observations are trite.

On Saturday evening he dines alone. There is no sign of the others; he’s perplexed, Perhaps they couldn’t afford full board? I can, so that’s fine.

During the last session on the Sunday he is counsellor and Natasha ‘sufferer’. Her portrayal of a betrayed utterly bereft wife is superb and, alarmingly, touches a nerve, reminding Victor of how women have reacted to his behaviour toward them. Natasha screams, Help me! Victor shouts, For fuck’s sake, woman, pull yourself together, you pathetic spoilt upper class cow! I don’t blame him for shagging someone else. 

Natasha holds up her hand. Hush. Hush. It’s role-play, Victor. You’ve forgotten that and also forgotten who I am, haven’t you? I’m the wife of the minister, your boss, and, as it happens, Vanessa’s sister. 

The penny drops. Who are you people? 

Vanessa’s brother, Rupert says.

Her other brother, Nigel adds.

I’m their uncle, Melvyn says.

That’s why you weren’t at dinner? 

Natasha smiles. Yes, this is our family home. We were in our own quarters, while you were feeding your face. Vanessa’s right, you’re an utterly self-centred prick and I think I can fairly say that your career is fucked. I’ll see to that. You can go now.

I hate you privileged bastards!

That’s to be expected. Gladly you’ll never be one of us. Goodbye.

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

© Phil Cosker 2020
Phil Cosker has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved; no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.

 

Emily

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I went into service in a country house in Yorkshire when I was fourteen. I could read and write, and my employers, the Bellinghams, unusually, allowed me to use my limited time off to extend my education in their library. It was no Catherine Cookson novel: I worked hard and rose to become their housekeeper; learning along the way that it was best to do your job without fuss and, somehow, to be invisible.

The Bellinghams fell on hard times and they had to let me go; it almost broke my heart. Having no family of my own, I had nowhere else to be; they let me stay in one of the cottages on their estate until it was sold. Despite my excellent references it took months to find new employment with everything being done through the Royal Mail.

Finally, Arthur Broad, a widower and master gardener, employed me as his housekeeper. I was anxious as I moved into his large house as his only servant:a widower and a spinster, whatever next? Tongues wagged in the village – I didn’t care; I needed the job. We became the best of friends – I learnt how to garden and he learnt to be tidy – a miracle. He always kept a diary of his crops and a notebook for his poetry and encouraged me in these new habits. I was no longer invisible.

When he died he left me the house and his wealth. I was both sad and grateful but I also thought there must be some mistake and feared that I would once again be homeless. I was needlessly frugal; I determined to make the money I inherited last all my days. Anyway, I was too old for another job. I grew my own fruit and veg and had meat and fish once a week. I made do and mended my clothes until they looked wretched but I wasn’t going to buy new clothes at my age. My only luxuries were my television and a cream sherry on a Friday night.I lived alone for many years until my arthritis was too painful and I was no longer able to care for myself and reluctantly moved into this care home.

I should have married, had children, but, alas, it never happened. No one visits me, ever. The staff are kind, they know my name, but they don’t know me, and they never will. Despite my arthritis, I still try and write my poems, and for that I thank Arthur.

Once again invisible
I lack the nurture of company
Bereft in my high backed chair
Amidst the piped music of care
I’m quietly avoiding
The embarrassment
Of being visible
I embrace myself
For lack of others’ arms
I wait at idle leisure
For what they call passing
As if it were a game of football
Or an exam to take
To rise victorious
My own arthritic hands
Raised in Pyrrhic victory
Sitting in the waiting room
Invisible at my ending.

 

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

© Phil Cosker 2020
Phil Cosker has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved; no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.

 

The Stretcher

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Adrian, a sprightly, short, sixty year old, is a stickler about his appearance; he thinks of himself as dapper favouring open-necked pastel coloured sea island cotton shirts, Paisley patterned cravats, double-breasted, shiny buttoned blazers, cavalry twill trousers and brown suede shoes that he calls brothel creepers. His coiffure is of particular concern to him; his hair is thick, curly white and in need of constant care – his wife thinks he looks like a senile golden retriever; she is not fond of him, or he of her. He was once a potter and is now the Principal of the School of Art. 

His daily timetable is meticulously kept. He enters his office at precisely 10.00 am and makes himself a cafetiere of coffee that he drinks black with a teaspoon of Fortnum and Mason’s multi coloured granulated sugar. Thereafter he deals with correspondence from the local authority and meets his deputy, Richard Whiteheath, for mutual bullshit and ego polishing. At 12.00 he walks across the road to the Manhattan Bar where he quaffs his first G&T of the day.

But, today, after three handsome G&Ts, there’s no more time to dally with the barmaid, the delightful big bosomed Brenda, as he blows her a kiss and sets forth for the hairdressing salon on the top floor of Binns for his bi-weekly haircut.

In the office in the basement of the School of Art the telephone rings. Sam, the caretaker, answers the phone, Yes, oh … has he? … Again? …Okay, give us ten mins and we’ll be right over. 

His assistant, young Jack, laughs, Again?

Sam sighs, Again. You, lad, pop up to the staff room and let ‘em know, will you?

Ten minutes later, those staff who aren’t still in the pub, are assembled on the top floor, in the conservatory where plants are grown and stored for students to draw. Five male staff stand on the wooden shelves, amidst the plants, to get a better view through the windows of the adjacent empty plot of land that acts as a temporary car park. 

There they are! Ray shouts.

Sam, Jack and Adrian wait at the Pelican crossing, although Adrian is unaware of this delay – he is asleep on the stretcher that Sam and Jack carry.

Slowly they weave their way through the parked cars to raucous cheering of the staff in the conservatory.

Minutes later Adrian is laid on the chaise longue in his office where he will slumber until wakened by Sam and told to drive home. 

The wood and canvas stretcher stands in the corner of Sam’s subterranean office – ready for future us.

In the staff room, Alan, a new member of staff, expresses his surprise at what he’s just seen.

Just think of it as performance art, Ray comforts.

It’s no way to run an art school, Alan objects.

He doesn’t, Ray replies, We do.