Jonnie Walker
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Stories (17)
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Coffee and Cake
I thought that the waiter looked about the most boring man alive. Even calling him a man is a bit disingenuous, because there was something unformed about him. He had a little tuft of fine black hair, like Velcro fuzz, on top of a scalp that seemed to have never had any more hair to begin with; better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all, I thought. The scalp soon became the face, which was fat and round like an egg, and the face stretched tiredly over what must have been golf balls fused to the rim of his jaw, then down to the neck, down to the belly, and so on and so on.
By Jonnie Walker4 years ago in Fiction
A Theft
‘STOP! STOP! or I’ll shoot!’ Constable Millerton shouted in a kind of strangulated heave, reminiscent of the sound air makes as it flees an over-stretched balloon. He sounded how he looked, which is to say like he was at death’s door. This is probably because he was; the exertion of a five hundred yard dash presented a distastefully daunting challenge for someone of his generous size and advancing age. He didn’t even have a gun, nor could he reasonably expect the remarkably fleet-footed thief to believe that a Duty Constable of the North Ayrshire Police would carry such a weapon.
By Jonnie Walker5 years ago in Fiction
On Albion's Shore
It was no use taking on a ninety-year-old at tennis. How was he supposed to compete against a forehand slice that had been honed and perfected for six decades longer than his own? Adam, sunken in yet another defeat, lay back in his chair and blinked twice to turn on the television.
By Jonnie Walker5 years ago in Fiction
Peachy . Top Story - June 2021.
In her complexion there lay a latent rouge which would emerge if she had been running for the train, or he told her she was pretty. In truth, she was very pretty, but she moved slowly and with the languor of a young teenage boy. All her elegance was in her face. Her eyes and brows were dark, and clashed broodingly with an otherwise pale disposition. Her Cupid’s Bow rose aggressively, but with a certain symphonic grace that moved around the rest of her face like a swirling wind. She had it in her to bite with a single look. On other days though, usually when the sun had brought out her freckles and kissed her skin, she would let down her guard and a downy innocence would bashfully emerge, like a peach. He often told her as much, immediately after having paid her some compliment deliberately devised to illuminate her cheeks. ‘Like a peach, that’s soft and sweet the whole way through – no stone’ he would say.
By Jonnie Walker5 years ago in Fiction
