Free Pompomberry House by Rosen Trevithick Page B

“I
mean, for a short story.”
    “Some people might find the first one tasteless,” Danger
pointed out.
    “That’s true,” granted Dawn. “We have to remember that this
book could be read by anybody in the forum.”
    “And who doesn’t love a good romantic comedy?” added Annabel,
using her love-struck face again.
    What was wrong with these people? The rom-com was boring,
unoriginal and I could already guess the entire plot. The black comedy, on the
other hand, had hoards of potential. And would cannibalism really offend
people? We were all grown adults. It wasn’t as if anybody was likely to know
somebody who’d been eaten by another human. This was twenty-first century England.
    I wondered if I should say something. My experiences so far
suggested that these were not people who liked to be disagreed with,
particularly on matters of literature.
    Then again, I wanted this anthology to be good. I wanted it
to sell thousands of copies, because then thousands of people would see my story. Some of them would read it. Some of them would enjoy it. Some of them might
go on to read The Red River.
    “I disagree!”
    The Sahara Desert sprang to mind — a vast, empty wilderness
where the only sound was the sound of the wind.
    “I think the first idea is better,” I continued.
    “Well, it isn’t!” harped Dawn.
    “In my opinion, it is .”
    “Well, you’ve already been outvoted, so let’s move on.”
    Rafe lifted his arm and showed Dawn his plate-sized palm,
then he showed it around, to make sure that everybody had noticed his
objection. “I want to hear what Dee has to say.”
    This was followed by some miffed murmuring, which I took as my
cue to interrupt. “I just think it has more depth, and greater potential for
humour. How far can you go with a couple and a detective, really? The black
comedy idea gives rise to an ensemble of characters ...”
    “It’s a short story!” cried Montgomery.
    “Even so, I think Rafe could make the first idea work. He
clearly has the ability to identify the societal quirks that need to be ridiculed
in order to pull it off, and I think that’s a unique skill that should be
nurtured. Anybody can write about a couple having a bit of a misunderstanding.”
    Then Rafe as good as dug my grave. “I agree with Dee.”
    This time, it wasn’t the Sahara Desert in my mind, but the
moon. Great expanses of rock spanned in every direction. The wind no longer
signified silence; it was silent. Completely silent. Eerily silent. Silent
silent. Silent.
    Eventually, Dawn spoke, bringing me back from my bleak
fantasy world, and into the much more terrifying reality of the dining room in
Pompomberry House. “I think we should elect an editor.”
    “Hear, hear!” cried Montgomery.
    “Hear, hear!” cried Dawn, more loudly.
    “That’s a good idea,” said Rafe, “but I’d like the freedom
to choose my own story, whether we have an editor or not.”
    I realised that Annabel was glaring at me. What was wrong
with the people and birds around here? All I wanted to do was write, yet never
an hour seemed to go by without somebody giving me the evil eye.
    “I don’t know whether my fallen pig should have a happy
ending,” mused Dawn. “I mean, as much as I’d like to see her rescued, happy
endings are just not very fashionable, are they?”
    “Perhaps it could end on a cliff-hanger ?” I joked.
    “I think I want tears,” she said, ignoring me. “Yes, I want
tears. I’m going to do it! I’m going to kill the pig!”
    “Oh!” cooed Annabel, clutching her heart.
    “Bittersweet endings are definitely the way to demonstrate
versatility,” agreed Danger. “I am going to write about a foot. There is no way that can have a happy ending.”
    “A foot?” asked Annabel, looking indignant.
    “Yes, a foot washes up on the beach.”
    “What, you mean ... without a body?”
    “Yes, severed.”
    “Well, that sounds like a great teaser for a whodunit!”
roared Montgomery.
    “Oh, it is