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Rosen Trevithick

British Author of Humorous and Psychological Fiction For Children and Adults
 

Drabbles

The Bureau

“I’ve had to wait for three hours in this waiting room, next to a woman who, frankly, smells as though she hasn’t washed for a week.

“Furthermore, why are you blind? You’re a receptionist, for goodness sake. What kind of organisation makes somebody who can’t see the first point of contact?

“Don’t get me started on the parking. I had to walk half a mile just to get here. Half a mile, only to sit in a room with paint peeling off the walls.'

“Sir, please remember that we’re a charity, run by volunteers.'

“You served me on time yesterday.'


Pastiche

"We're snowed in - snowed in with a mad man on the lose," he read, ending his drabble with a satisfied smile.

"It's not very, um… original," replied his girlfriend, the bestselling author.

"That's the point. By writing a cliché, I'm mocking the genre. It has LEVELS!"

"How will people know you're mocking the genre, not just writing an unoriginal piece of fiction?"

With that, he swung the axe onto her head, as the snowstorm raged outside. "I," he stressed, "will know."

He looked down at her lifeless body, pleased with his work. For some artists, reaching an audience is immaterial.


My Love

She waited excitedly. She’d seen the title of his drabble over her shoulder: “My Love.'

She remembered the song Teddy had written for Susan. She remembered the portrait Jane had drawn of Sammy.

Eventually, he spoke the words she’d waited to hear: “I’ve written a new drabble.'“Ooh!' she cooed her rehearsed response, waiting for poetry and superlatives.

She read the words carefully, taking in each one, savouring the moment. “That’s wonderful,' she said, genuinely touched. “Although, a drabble is 100 words, not 99.'

“That’s because you haven’t given me your answer yet,' he said, looking at her with hope.


Sharing

The atheist politely declined a flier inviting him to the fete at a church labelled 'Jesus is Lord'.

He offered a warm smile to the Jehovah's Witness who told him that he needed to convert in order to reach God’s Kingdom.

He thanked the boy scout who gave him a cookie iced with the words, 'Jesus loves you'.

When the time was right, he wrote a tweet, a tweet about his own personal feelings on the creation of the earth.

A Christian instantly unsubscribed from future tweets. The author should not have communicated a view that others might not share.


Gunman

Dead. Shot dead. A massacre at her school. You hear about atrocities on the news. No mother imagines it could be her child.

Moments flash before my eyes: holding her for the first time, her father holding her for the first time … He’d been so proud of our little family … back then.I haven’t seen him for five years.

Five years without a word, and now I’ve to deliver this news.

He comes to the door, his eyes hollow. “It was Kelly, wasn’t it?'

I’m barely able to nod, but somehow find the strength. “Afterwards, she turned the gun on herself.'


Deficient

Mark I have an uncomma condition I find it hard to talk about you might question Mark my writing but its incurable full stop you might make an exclamation Mark when you see my written word but Im punctuation deficient and the doctor says I quote

Your condition is apostrophic and theres nothing to be done Ive dealt with period problems but yours really takes the slash Ive dealt with colon diseases but yours is really not old hat

This is your last appointment lets not hash over old ground

Im sorry youre incurable but I really must now dash


Tales of Tremousecock - Dorcus and Nicca

Dorcus got dressed up for her weekly coffee morning. Her tufts of black hair sprang from her head matching the charisma of her horn-rimmed glasses.

Just as she was about to leave the house, she noticed her son clutching a jam jar. He was wearing the fluffy jumped she’d knitted.

“I can’t get it open,' wailed Nicca.

Dorcus sighed. “You know sugar makes you over-excitable.'

Nicca looked dejected. “But I’m hungry. Can I come with you to your coffee morning?'

“I suppose so, but don’t interrupt while adults are talking.'

“Yes mum.' Nicca, picked up his wallet and car keys.


Tales of Tremousecock - Hendrek Davey

Hendrek was Tremousecock’s family man. Born of a good, generation-Cornish couple, with a devoted wife and a son learning the family fishing trade, he couldn’t be prouder.

Hendrek was at the forefront of village politics, like when the modern house had been built in 1989. The villagers hadn’t won their planning war, but that year the sense of community had been stronger than ever.

He watched from the window as his wife walked down the road, admiring the fine clothes he had provided for her.

Hurriedly, Hendrek grabbed his phone, “Darling, she’s gone. I’ve got the furry handcuffs out waiting.'


Tales of Tremousecock - Cordelia Mousecock

Cordelia stood by the window perfecting her posture. She had chosen a navy pencil skirt and loose lilac blouse to show casual authority. She’d ditched her Prada heals to evoke vulnerability.

She watched her son’s grey Audi pull into the drive. As planned, she swept the net curtain with a hand, communicating that she was anxious about Robert’s arrival.

She strode to the front door and watched Robert climb from his car, looking solemn.

Cordelia staggered and steadied herself against the door.

Robert, glumly said, “Grandpa’s breathing through a tube now.'

“What?' demanded Cordelia, straightening. “The bugger’s still not dead?'


A Big Achievement

“Why are you drinking a triple chocolate shake with cream, Rosen?'

“I had some good news today, non-descript friend who I can’t be bothered to name.'

“Oh really? What was it?'

“It’s book related,' says Rosen, with a grin.

“It always is,' says the non-descript friend, without a grin. “So come on then, what have you achieved? A booker prize? A number one bestseller? A TV appearance?'

“It’s Indie Book Bargains birthday and ‘Pompomberry House’ was the most downloaded book of its first year.'

“Isn’t Indie Book Bargains the site that you run?'

Rosen looks away, and whistles to herself.


The Subtle Hint

I'll start an indie books newsletter. I'll spend a week coding the site. I'll spend an hour each day carefully sourcing books.

Then, I'll introduce drabbles. I'll get talented indies from all over the country and beyond, to pen hundred word fiction, to really hook people in.

Then, once I've got everybody's attention, I'll wait for the momentous day to arrive. I will publish my own drabble - a drabble that will hint with all the subtlety of a polka-dot lead mallet, that today, October 26th, is a special day.

"But Rosen, couldn't you have just told people it's your birthday?"


Come into my House

It's raining. Why don't you come into my house, young one? It's just here.

You're wet. Let me dry you. Let me run this cloth over your body. Let me stroke you a little.

I know what you like - you like to be tickled don't you. I love it when you squirm around like that.

Don't you look cute lying there? Let me get my camera. Let me photograph you. That's it - pose!

Let me say 'Aren't you lovely?' one thousand times and call you 'Sugar'.

The neighbours really shouldn't have left you out in the rain, cute ginger moggy.