Category Archives: Short Stories

Millions Once Watched

Noah sat cross-legged on the floor, eating a bowl of cornflakes. Henry had seen this before—only then, it was on a YouTube video during a train ride from Manchester to London. In that video, Noah had poured milk over his cereal and collapsed onto the floor to eat, idly watching his housemates move around him. They hadn’t said a word, stepping carefully to avoid him—an inconvenience they tolerated.

Now, Noah sat on the floor again, eating breakfast as Henry checked his bag, picked an apple from the fruit bowl, and scrolled through his messages before work. The scene unfolded in silence, broken only by the soft tap of Noah’s spoon against the bowl. Their life had become a loop of flashbacks—moments once broadcast to millions, now replayed quietly within the confines of their apartment.

Banjo – or the Modern Adonis

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Zach Majmader at Storm Management – London

Adonis was said to be the son of Theias, king of Syria, and his daughter Myrrha. There was nothing, it seemed, like a touch of incest to produce a child of exquisite beauty. When her father discovered her pregnancy, Myrrha fled and was transformed into a myrrh tree. Yet even in that form, she gave birth to a boy so lovely that Aphrodite herself took pity on him.

The goddess carried the infant to the underworld, entrusting him to Persephone’s care. But when Adonis grew into a youth of rare grace, both women fell hopelessly in love with him. It was inevitable, perhaps, that beauty would bring both adoration and ruin.

One day, while hunting, Adonis was fatally gored by a wild boar—sent, some say, by Artemis to punish his vanity. His blood mingled with Aphrodite’s tears and gave birth to the first anemone. Thus, his beauty became eternal, immortalised in a flower.

And so the story of Adonis was handed down through the ages, until it reached a boy called Banjo.

There is something wonderfully absurd about a boy named Banjo. The name had been chosen simply because his grandfather played the instrument—nothing more mystical than that. Had Banjo been plain, the name might have invited merciless teasing. But as fate would have it, he was beautiful—achingly so—and thus the name became a kind of charm.

He was the sort of young man who made strangers feel vaguely inadequate. They would take in his fine-boned features, his golden skin, his effortless grace, and feel the familiar pang of envy or desire. His beauty unsettled people, as though they were confronted by something not entirely human.

Banjo, however, found his looks exhausting. So he delighted in the single imperfection that spoiled the illusion: a missing front tooth. When people stared too long, he would flash a grin—a broad, dazzling smile—and there it was: the flaw that disrupted the marble perfection.

No one knew how he’d lost it. The rumours ranged from drugs to fights to some impoverished past before fame. The truth, however, was known only to Banjo, and he guarded it carefully. The missing tooth became his private rebellion against the myth others had built around him.

He liked the way it disarmed people, how it made him seem approachable, almost ordinary. It was a reminder that even gods have their fractures. Beauty, he thought, was not found in perfection, but in the quirks and vulnerabilities that betrayed our humanity.

If the ancient sculptors had carved him, they had stopped just short of finishing the smile—leaving him, deliberately, incomplete.

Banjo never replaced the tooth. He kept it as a secret charm, a flaw that told the truth: that myths do not survive in the real world, and perfection is the loneliest lie of all.

The Boys on the Bridge – The Last Game

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Images – Merel Hart for Behind the Blinds

The warm light of day. A sudden shout. A boy’s voice: “Questa è la fine!” — This is the end! The cry carries over the water, impossible to know which of them called it, only that it came from one of these boys, each charged with careless energy.

“Con petto nudo,” comes the whisper — with bare chest. “Speak it now, or the moment will slip into memory.”

The dares run high: peer pressure, bravado, that fragile seam between recklessness and courage. None of them yet know it, but this is their rite of passage — the pivot between innocence and the pull of adulthood. Here, in the heat, end the rituals, the invisible hierarchies, the unspoken rules of the pack.

The summer outsider watches. Friendship, rivalry, longing, jealousy, innocence, danger — all play out before his eyes. And he understands the cry for what it truly is: not a game, not a dare, but a declaration.

It is the end.

Image – Merel Hart for Behind the Blinds

Somewhere he hasn’t yet imagined

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He crouched at the platform’s edge, elbows balanced on his knees, his bare arms lit starkly by the fluorescent tubes above. The train had not yet arrived, but the rails sang faintly, a low vibration that climbed through the soles of his shoes. He leant forward, alert, as if he could will it closer with the sharpness of his gaze.

The station smelt of metal and damp stone, a place most would find tired and ordinary. But for him it felt alive – charged. His youth made everything sharper: the hum of electricity, the echo of footsteps along the tiled walls, even the restless air that slipped through the tunnel ahead. He sniffed his armpits and detected the sweet aroma of innocent sweat that he rather liked.

And then the lights appeared, two pale orbs cutting through the dark, and his breath caught. It was only a train—one of a thousand that came before and would come after. Yet in that moment it felt like something else entirely, a promise or a dare. The train held his past, and once he had boarded, it would move him towards a future. He didn’t know where it would go, only that he was ready to be carried.

He grinned to himself, a private smile that nobody else saw. His whole body hummed with the knowledge that he was young, and that youth meant possibilities.

The Bathwater

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Maria was tired of life. Tired of the flat that they lived in. Tired of not having enough money. Tired of being a mother to a four year old. Tired of not being able to take a bath on her own. That was it. She was tired of Joe most of all. They sat opposite each other in silence. She kept still, but he fidgeted, unable to get comfortable and put his feet against the wall behind her and trapped her head between his legs. She noticed the scar on his left knee that had turned pink in the hot water. She also saw how white the bubbles on his legs seemed against the dirty bathroom tiles. Joe lit a cigarette and offered it to her, but she declined, and he simply shrugged. All the time he flicked ash into the bathwater, but she no longer cared. At least he wasn’t wearing sunglasses like he normally did in the bath. ‘I used to love him,’ she thought, ‘but now I hate him more than anything.

And then to bed, where half in doze, I seemed to float about a glimmering night of Uranians

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I was dancing with ghosts. Men who lived from the reign of Queen Victoria, through Edward VII, to King George V. A few lived beyond. They were spectral figures circling me, wavering, and waiting for a response. Watchful. Whispering. Lingering. For the most part, they were happy that I was there, but a few eyed me with caution. They lived in a time when it was wiser to trust nobody.

More and more joined the dance. Coming out of doors that had long closed, from dark corners, and miserable places to where they were banished.

Each told me their name, some I knew, but most were unfamiliar, and frowned at my ignorance. There were those whose names I recognised, but not the men they belonged to. But there were so many that I would not remember everyone, and I resorted to recording names in a notebook. I wrote frantically, eager to please, careful not to miss anyone.

A long list of dead people, some of whom were friends, acquaintances, and some who were strangers to one another. They danced because they were connected – names intrinsically linked – but they might not have known it. They had gone into my notebook because they shared something in common.

When they lived I did not exist. I came much later, born into a kinder world.

The passage of time puts me at an advantage. A century later, it is easy for me to see how they lived, what achievements came their way, if at all, and how they were remembered, for better or worse. The links are in the chain – who was attached to who?

The Boy with the Black Dog

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Ten o’clock in the morning and I hoped that I wasn’t too late. I stood on the terrace and looked upon the narrow street, the wait tense, every figure a possibility, every person making my pulse leap, until I remembered the black dog, and the disappointment set in.

I was in my hiding place, and he wouldn’t know that I was there, the anticipation laced with secrecy, maybe even guilt. I was invisible, while he was exposed for everyone to see. What would happen if he looked up? Would he even notice me? What if I wasn’t the only watcher?

The minutes ticked by and I hoped that he would appear, and when he did, it would seem like the world was holding its breath. I waited for the boy with the black dog.

Fake and be friend. The dance of Caesar and Brutus

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Urban adolescent. Prowling the streets. Catching stares. Bringing himself to orgasm and waiting for one that will be.

Colvey is number one and will die before he is properly a man. He is angry and suspicious of everyone. Wary of his enemies and more so of those who say they are friends. (Know what I mean bro?) Some will argue that this streak of uncertainty gives him an advantage, but one day he will meet the person that will plunge a knife into him and then knowing who to trust and who not to will be irrelevant. One thing I do know is that it will be the person he least suspected.

Angry with everyone. Controlling the uncontrollable. Respect from those who have no idea what it means. (Respect bro!)

Until then, Colvey must control this unruly band of boys – tearaways, petty thieves, and miscreants – who cannot muster up a brain between them, and who idolise him because they are afraid of the consequences if they don’t. Look around the city and you will see the tags on shitty walls, doors and metal shutters that protect empty shops in rundown streets. Our territory, our ground, our space.

Grooming. A word that has become part of modern society. A bad word. A careless word. Colvey might be accused of grooming kids to swell his ranks. But it is something he started when he was a small boy who shit his pants in school.

Provincial demon. Misery. Mayhem.

Keep your enemy close to you and let him do your dirty work.

Mason is number two and must wait. Living under a shadow that must surely fade. It is one thing knowing those who will cause you harm, another when that threat comes from within. Catch these hands. Colvey knows this. (You’re my best mate bro). The dance of Caesar and Brutus. Fake and be friend.

I watch. I see. Tattletale, snitch, informant, telltale, squealer. Colvey’s bitch. The one person he says he can trust. The one person who could bring him down if I wanted to. But that ain’t gonna happen because I’ll be a good number two.

Secrets and lies. Scrawny and slim. Wiry. The violent sex. “You want to know something?” Colvey lies next to me. “I ain’t gay bro. I like pussy. This is only bud sex.” ‘I ain’t a batty boy either,” I tell him. Colvey kisses me. “This is sheesh. Don’t tell anyone that I like bussin’ you bro.”

But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day

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Image: Sid Vicious / Ebet Roberts / 1978

“The Laurels Residential Care Home is pleased to announce that the Space Kids will be here on 8 June 2045.”

The pending arrival had been flashed onto the wall of every bedroom. Old people liked it when the Space Kids came. They came across the fields on Ducati Thrust Bikes, not a sound, and only the shaking of the hedgerows gave any indication that they had arrived. They gathered in the ChatGPT room and shouted for everyone to leave their pods. The Space Kids had brought holograms of dead stars and allowed them to mingle with the residents. Patrick Swayze and Kurt Cobain chatted with them, Prince and Amy Winehouse waltzed around the room, Bruce Willis cracked jokes, and Michael Jackson reeled off poetic verses from Thriller. But their favourite time was when the Space Kids fired up the ‘retro spectro disco’ where the likes of Pulp, Oasis and Take That got them all dancing. Towards the end, there were traditional food dishes like Big Macs, Nando’s Chicken and Pepperoni Pizza with Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream to follow. It had an emotional ending when the Space Kids paid tribute to the home’s oldest resident who was treated to a Sid Vicious avatar singing a punk version of We’ll Meet Again. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place.

“If a man can bridge the gap between life and death, if he can live on after he’s dead, then maybe he was a great man.”

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The day was hot and sunny like most days were in California. It was a good time to eat outside. A car growled along the freeway and for a moment I thought it might be you.

“Yes, it brings back memories. But old age plays tricks and I haven’t heard that sound for a very long time.”

I asked the new boy what the date was and he said it was 29 September. “That makes tomorrow the thirtieth then.” He looked at me like young people do. “I guess it does,” he said kindly and went about clearing the breakfast remains.

The new boy, who was called Trent, put a copy of The Hollywood Reporter in front of me. “I know you like reading the showbiz news, Joe.” I flicked through it but I only recognised old studio names.

“The people that we once knew have gone and so did the good movies.”

I heard Trent talking to Maria, a Mexican girl who had been here for years. “I think Joe is talking to himself,” he said. “They all talk to themselves here,” she told him. “Or they talk to somebody who isn’t there. Sit with him for a while.”

“Did you hear that? They think I’m senile. Old age isn’t nice. The truth is, there aren’t many people to chat with these days. The ones who want to talk are strangers, but even they get up and go.”

Trent sat at the table and lit a cigarette. He was in his early twenties and I suppose might have been considered handsome. He was blonde and blue-eyed like most boys around here. He hadn’t shaved and probably hadn’t slept. The cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth and I couldn’t help staring. “Is everything okay, Joe?”

“Look at him. Remember when you used to do that with your cigarette?”

The boy made small talk. He needed to make old people feel part of this strange world, and wanted me to act like everything was normal. But I was lost to the memories that lived inside my head.

“Are you looking at him? This boy cares nothing about how he looks but his soul shines. He is what you should have been.”

“So tomorrow is the 30th of September. Is that date important?” I’m roused from my thoughts and saw that Trent was waiting for an answer.

“I want to tell him to get in his car and find a good road to kill himself. That way he will be remembered as he is now.”

A breeze blew across the fields and made the trees around us sway and whisper.

“I knew that you couldn’t resist coming back to look.”

“Sometimes you die because living is not an option,” I told Trent. He looked confused. “I have known people who destroyed themselves to continue living.”

“What do you want me to say, Jim? What do you want me to say that I’ve not said a thousand times?”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying Joe.” Trent leant across the table and took my hands in his. “What is it that you’re trying to say?” I looked at his worried face and saw myself as a young man.

“A long time ago, I knew a boy about your age. He had everything and didn’t realise it. But he died and everything stopped.”

“Who was he, and what was he like?” Trent knew that I am an ex-smoker and offered me the cigarette. I took a drag but handed it back when I started coughing.

“Are you listening, Jim? I don’t want to shatter an illusion but I’m still pissed with you, and it might do me good to tell the truth, but I know I’m going to lie again.”

“He was kind and gentle,” I said. “And very talented. He was one of the finest actors I ever saw.”

“Well that’s what the world chose to believe, isn’t it?”

I looked at Trent and realised that he was from a generation who cared nothing for the past. When he was older, he might be interested in history and remember this conversation. He was supposed to be working and looked around to see if the bosses were watching. When he squinted, I saw a boy too vain to wear glasses. “I’m going back home to see my parents,” he said. “I haven’t seen them in months.” I was struck by his accent and asked where home might be? “I’m from Branson, Missouri, Joe.”

“That street corner on Overland Avenue where we met. You rode a motorbike and made small talk. ‘I’m from Fairmount, Indiana,’ you told me, and then you asked me if I wanted a blow job. Here’s another boy, far from home, in a place that promises everything, but gives nothing.”

Maria appeared and gave me my medication. Five tablets, three times a day. If I don’t take them I will die. Except that I’m on borrowed time anyway.

“I shall see you in hell because that’s where people like us end up. You’ll still be a handsome son of a bitch and will grunt when I ask you something, and I’ll be an ugly old man. How is that fair?

“Remember when I told you I loved you? The next day you came around and sat staring at me. Not a word for an hour. Staring like a madman. And I looked back, trying to make you talk, but you wouldn’t say anything. Then you pissed in the corner of the apartment and left.”

Somebody was in trouble. There were sirens on the freeway. Police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks. A chopper flew overhead. Everyone was in a hurry to help someone who might be trapped in the wreckage of a car.

“Tomorrow is the 30th September, and seventy years on, I believe you deliberately crashed. Was it because of me? Did you intend to die? Did you think that they could put those fractured pieces back together again? Did you want to be immortal?