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.

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.