Posts by grahamwalker1

Damian

Posted on February 13, 2012

I first met him in a squat near Hampstead Heath. He was wearing two pairs of sunglasses, one on top of the other. He sat at the end of the dinner table staring at me.  His head was shaved and his face pink and scaly, almost as if it had been scrubbed dry. Small fragments of skin fell like snowflakes whenever he moved and settled on the shoulders of his jacket. He had long, almost translucent fingers with the nails nibbled to the core. He kept them interlocked and would twiddle his thumbs continuously, squeezing his palms together, almost as if he was in a permanent state of prayer. He never spoke nor smiled but devoured the food as if it was his last,…

Superman

Posted on February 11, 2012

Moscow, 1926.  Josef Stalin sits behind a large oak desk waiting for the arrival of Ilya Ivanovich, Russia’s top animal breeding specialist who has just returned from two years in Guinea Conakry where he has been conducting experiments. The room is oak-panelled and there is a large painting of a group of men behind Stalin’s desk. There are numerous gaps among the montage. To the left of him is a flag with the Hammer and Sickle on it.  Standing next to him is Lavrenti Beria, Head of the KGB, a small man with large eyes and tiny hands. He is Stalin’s right-hand man and responsible for all the purges and the Great Terror. He is to Stalin’s right and is holding a pile of…

Last Stop

Posted on February 11, 2012

Joe lay slumped in his chair opposite, his head resting against a pillow, his pyjama top wide open, exposing his sagging belly. His face was bright pink, almost cherubic, and his pupils deep red almost as if they were on fire, demonic even. He was angry and you could see it. Angry about being old and sick. He scowled. Classical music floated from a small, portable radio on a table in front of him and he moved his head in unison, hypnotised by its strains, his only joy in this place of lost souls. Little tufts of white hair clung to the sides of his head and his eyebrows drooped over his face almost blocking his vision. He looked at me almost enviously, wandering…

A Rabbit’s Tale

Posted on February 11, 2012

George had made his mind up that the dog would have to go. There was no question about it. It was either Paddy or him. All he had to do was pluck up the courage to tell her. It wasn’t as if they needed the damn thing. Yes, they were in the countryside but this wasn’t the Wild West and packs of wolves would not be attacking their small homestead in the night. He would just let it out gently and that would be that. Mind you, it had disappeared into the night again and had shown no sign of returning. He swallowed his whiskey and smiled. That’s when he heard the scratching, announcing it’s return. He grimaced. ‘Thank God for that,’ said Susan,…