Over seven days from Monday 21st July, Only Me, a brand new short story, unfolds. Each part is precisely 140 characters in length (a tweet). You can follow the tale here, on Twitter or on Facebook.

Only Me ~ Part 7

My watch is a bit slow, which means I have waited over half an hour. The swing isn't overly comfortable and my bum's starting to ache badly.

One hour has passed. My time is up. I told Mum I wouldn't be out for longer. Perhaps it's a good thing I mightn't ever see my brother again.

If it weren't for the red keyring in my pocket, the past week might all have been a dream. But it is in my pocket. And it has my name on it.

When I open the front door, I notice that there's no smell of dinner. The kitchen door is closed and Mum and Dad are shouting at each other.

They stop when I enter. "When's dinner?" I ask. "It'll have to be takeaway," Dad says. I pour myself a glass of orange, but I'm not thirsty.

As I force myself to drink it, I wish for everything to be back to normal. Then I realise normal's what I hate. Normal's Dad behind a paper.

I close my eyes. I cannot think straight. I hurl the empty glass at the floor. "It was an accident," I scream, fetching a dustpan and brush.

On my way out to the bin, I nearly cut myself on a sliver of glass poking through the bag. I lift the lid, drop in the bag, close it. Pause.

I lift the lid again. Push aside the bag. Undo the bag beneath. Look over my shoulder when I see what I thought I could see through the bag.

There is a bit of last night's dinner on its red peak. I can see the bear in more detail now it's off his head. It's not as fierce close up.

Honesty was my best policy. But they can't know that I met the boy in the park more than once. Nor that their eight year old has held a gun.

They probably do know. But it won't ever be spoken. They want me to do well in school and grow up and be a doctor. Doctors do not hold guns.

I do up the bag. Put the bag with the glass on top again. I close the lid and walk inside. "Does ham and pineapple suit you, son?" Dad asks.

"Yes," I say. I can feel the keyring in my pocket. It presses into my skin and reminds me, will always remind me, that I had a brother once.

The End

Over seven days from Monday 21st July, Only Me, a brand new short story, unfolds. Each part is precisely 140 characters in length (a tweet). You can follow the tale here, on Twitter or on Facebook.

Only Me ~ Part 6

I make the decision that I will meet him in the park after school on the first day back - just as arranged - but that must be the last time.

It's quite simple to decide to sever contact with a brother whom you've never known or loved. A brother who might be just a boy in the park.

The gun fits snugly in my bottom drawer. Between the two jumpers Gran gave me once and I wore once. "Dinner," Mum calls. "Coming," I answer.

First day back. The maths teacher asks me a simple question in class but I can't think straight. Everyone sniggers behind ink-stained hands.

By the final bell, my hands are moist and I've been to the toilet more times than I can remember. I realise that I'm deeply worried for him.

I run home from school. Get honked at twice. Fly upstairs. Something is wrong. A picture is at a different angle. I race over to the drawer.

It is missing. I'm not sure whether to be terrified or relieved. Relieved that I mightn't have to hold it again. 15:47. We are meeting at 4.

The final part coming Sunday 27th July

Over seven days from Monday 21st July, Only Me, a brand new short story, unfolds. Each part is precisely 140 characters in length (a tweet). You can follow the tale here, on Twitter or on Facebook.

Only Me ~ Part 5

I do not understand but I do not refuse. His eyes are begging, desperate. "So, do YOU have a girlfriend?" I pluck from the trillion and one.

"S'complicated," he says. "That's her name too?" I ask. He smiles briefly. Making him smile makes me feel special. His clothes are the same.

We look at each other, the air still. The two of us. Not moving, not talking, not knowing, not loving. Me and my brother. My brother and me.

The hours awake wishing for a brother! And now I have one I don't know what to do. Worse, I sense he'll leave my life as quickly as he came.

I ignore questions I want to ask, ones I need to ask. Instead: "Shall I bring a football next time?" He nods at the parcel. "No, just that.”

It is 16:43. There are two things on my bed: me and the parcel. Before he'd left, he stressed that I should keep it safe, hidden and closed.

But that's like asking Dad to leave the cryptic crossword unsolved, or like asking Mum to leave a carpet of tortilla chip crumbs unhoovered.

There's another layer inside the paper bag. And another. And another. I unfold each carefully so I can package it up again exactly the same.

I hold it the same way as on TV. It's cold, heavy and dirty. I turn it, watching my fingers all the time. Stare down the night-black barrel.

Part 6 coming Saturday 26th July

Over seven days from Monday 21st July, Only Me, a brand new short story, unfolds. Each part is precisely 140 characters in length (a tweet). You can follow the tale here, on Twitter or on Facebook.

Only Me ~ Part 4

"Where have you been?" Mum says (shouts). "A friend's." Mum doesn't know I don't have friends. "I said I wouldn't bloody go near him again!”

I duck too late. My cheek stings. "Watch your mouth! Where is this friend?" "23 Hawthorne Road," I reply, quick as a flash. She won't check.

"Thank goodness you're back in school next week," Mum says, gravy on her chin. I cannot see Dad, only the cryptic crossword and the weather.

"But I'm no bother," I say. "Better in school," Mum insists. "I'm going to my friend's again tomorrow." Mum nods. Because it's not the park.

"Thanks for my keyring," I say the next day, feeling bad that I thought he'd stolen it. He's pulling out another paper bag, this one bigger.

"But I haven't brought you anything," I say. "I want this back," he says. "I need you to keep it for me." He places it in my hands and nods.

It's heavier than it looks. I start to peel back the paper but he puts his hand out. "Don't. You mustn't open it. For your own good, don’t.”

Part 5 coming Friday 25th July

Over seven days from Monday 21st July, Only Me, a brand new short story, unfolds. Each part is precisely 140 characters in length (a tweet). You can follow the tale here, on Twitter or on Facebook.

Only Me ~ Part 3

Mum says I'm to stay in now and play on my computer. The next day I lift the latch carefully, open the door slowly. It doesn't make a noise.

He's there already. I see his red cap instantly. I go over to the swings and sit on the nearest, my legs dangling more casually than I feel.

I reach twenty-two in my head before he's standing in front of me. He smells a bit funny and I think he's wearing yesterday's clothes again.

He pulls a paper bag from his pocket and hands it to me. "What's this?" I ask. "Look," he mutters. I pull out a red keyring with my name on.

I do not know what to say so I just tell the truth. "I don't have any keys." Then I look into his grubby face. "Did you buy this in a shop?”

He shrugs, then grunts. He has stolen it, I can tell. Somebody who can't afford soap or another set of clothes can't afford to buy keyrings.

"Why do you not live with us? And what is YOUR name?" I ask. He looks down. "It's complicated." "Pleased to meet you, Complicated," I reply.

He smiles and I smile. "You'd have made a good brother," he tells me. "Thank you," I say. I have a trillion and one things to ask but don’t.

"So..." he trails off. I think he's more nervous than me. "Do you have a girlfriend?" he eventually asks. "I'm eight," I say. "Nearly nine.”

"Right," he says. I swing my legs a little to look busy. I don't want to go home so soon but the silence is awkward. "I better go back now.”

"You've only just come." "I know," I reply, then shrug. "See you," I say, turning to leave. "It's Tom," he says. "Maybe I'll see you again?”

I sit out of view, my back to a tree. I rub my finger over the keyring, tracing my name. As I put it in the paper bag, I notice the receipt.

Part 4 coming Thursday 24th July

Over seven days from Monday 21st July, Only Me, a brand new short story, unfolds. Each part is precisely 140 characters in length (a tweet). You can follow the tale here, on Twitter or on Facebook.

Only Me ~ Part 2

I walk home, head low. I tread down the red, brown and orange carpet rather than kick it up. Dinner tickles my nostrils when the door opens.

Sausages and beans; my favourite. Mum's wiping sauce from her chin. Dad's head is behind the newspaper as usual, so he doesn't have to talk.

I want to tell them about the park, but I'm afraid to speak. Then I remember that Mum is always reminding me that honesty is my best policy.

"I met someone today," I announce. "A friend from school?" asks Mum, sauce still on her chin. But I don't have friends. "A boy in the park.”

"A boy?" Mum's voice goes higher. "What have I told you about talking to strangers?" I shrug, although I know. "Do I have a brother?" I ask.

For the first time in history, Dad lowers his paper to look at me. "What did you say, son?" "I asked if I had a brother." Mum's face is odd.

Dad laughs, but I don't mean to be funny. "What an absurd question! Of course you don't have a brother." He lifts the paper, hides his face.

Then Mum says: "This is why you don't talk to strangers. They can and will tell you anything. Anything! You're not to go to the park again.”

"But-" "But nothing," Mum interrupts. "These people are dangerous. They trick you to get something." Then she adds: "What did he look like?”

"He was tall with a red baseball cap. And he had a small moustache and an earring." Mum's quiet before replying: "You don't have a brother.”

Part 3 coming Wednesday 23rd July

Over seven days from Monday 21st July, Only Me, a brand new short story, unfolds. Each part is precisely 140 characters in length (a tweet). You can follow the tale here, on Twitter or on Facebook.

Only Me ~ Part 1

I like the way the leaves fly into the air every time I kick them. Some even reach my head. I'm sure my hood is playing catch with them too.

He's there again by the swings. I saw him there before; I can feel him there now. I used to go on the swings often. Not any more. I daren’t.

I shake the leaves out of my hood, pull it up over my head to sneak a glance without making it seem obvious. I turn. He's there. Next to me.

Mum always says I shouldn't speak to strangers, so I don't. But it's hard to turn away from his odd stare. "You're my brother," he tells me.

I keep my lips tightly together. Mum also told me never to trust strangers. I want to go home but he's bigger, taller. He'd easily catch me.

"I always wanted a brother," he says. His red baseball cap has a bear's head on it. Over his lip is a trace of hair; through his ear, metal.

The wind's making my eyes water. I hope he doesn't think I'm crying. A siren comes close then moves off, prompting his head to turn briefly.

"I won't hurt you. There's no need to cry," he says. "I'm NOT crying," I snap back, without thinking, having just broken one of Mum's rules.

"That's the first time I've heard you speak properly," he tells me. I shrug then turn, embarrassed. "If you're my brother, tell me my name."

The siren's back, on this side of the park. I look over my shoulder as its insistent scream amplifies. When I turn back to him, he has gone.

Part 2 coming Tuesday 22nd July

Earlier this week, Cloud Atlas author, David Mitchell, took to Twitter to publish a story over a number of days, each part constrained to a tweet's 140-character limit. It struck me as an excellent use of a medium which is largely noise and advert bombardment nowadays. Could I do the same, I asked myself.

Several days on and I'm now sitting before a document containing 68 tweets, each one advancing my story that little bit more. While Mitchell has confined each part to within the tweet's character count, I have taken it one step further and made each tweet exactly 140 characters. I found this to be a great, sometimes maddening(!), challenge. I'm used to writing precisely and sparingly when I work on drabbles (stories precisely 100 words long). There, you have to make every word count, but here, you have to make every letter and every piece of punctuation count. If you miss the target by just one character, you have to rephrase, rewrite, rework, until it's spot on. It forces you to make every syllable and every word important. Makes you strip away the unnecessary and focus on what really drives a story forward. Furthermore, I tried to make every tweet self-contained and each day's worth of tweets self-contained, in the sense that the reader is constantly learning something new and is often left with a teasing cliffhanger.

I plan to send out the tweets in bursts of 7-14 once per day over the course of one week. At the end of each day, for those unable to follow on Twitter, I will post that day's tweets together on Facebook and on this blog.

I have just read through the story in its entirety and am really pleased with how it's turned out. I hope you will be too. The journey, Only Me, begins soon...

After writing hundreds of drabbles (100-word stories) last year, my output has decreased somewhat as I focus on longer fiction. However, I still do write the occasional drabble. Here's my latest. Enjoy!

Maureen Goes Topical

Outside, the sun was shining. Inside, the summery atmosphere was conveyed largely by Cliff Richard on the stereo telling Maureen that they were all going on a seasonal vacation. She hummed along as she shined her cut glass wedding sherry schooners to their maximum sparkle. Adjusted a bottle here, brought one forward there. Ensured all the labels faced the same way and arranged the bottles in ascending size order. Aesthetically pleasing was the look she was aiming for. As she worked, she sampled each liquor, just to ensure it was potable, you understand. Oh, how she loved her cabinet reshuffle.


To explore more of my drabbles, click here. To encounter Maureen in her full-length adventures, click here.

Welcome to my new author website. After spending many enjoyable hours (and the occasional frustrating one), I am finally ready to cut the red ribbon and allow hordes of visitors to go trampling across my newly polished web pages.

If you were familiar with the old website, I hope you'll agree that this is easier on the eye and altogether a more pleasing surfing experience. So, what's changed? Apart from the design, not a lot really. You'll still find details of all my books, a wealth of useful links and an 'about me' page. I intend to use the blog to update you with anything going on in my writing world. Should you ever live in fear of missing a critical blog post, feel free to pop your email address in the box opposite.

What about my reviews? On the old site, I used to review books regularly (and, less frequently, theatre). I have made the decision to separate this from my author site, but panic not! I will be posting reviews on a brand new review blog with a twist that may (or, on reflection, to those who know me, probably won't all that much) surprise you. The 100 Word Reviews blog is now open for business also.

Tuck in and enjoy!
Jonathan