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
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
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