Flume
What, another novel? Already!
“Bigfoot, old fellow,” I said, “if you’re going to be an author, like a proper author, you can’t just chuck stories out there like confetti.”
But would he listen! He’s been bashing at that typewriter like nobody’s business.
“What’s it called then?” I asked.
“Flume.”
“I beg your pardon.”
And then he explained it all. A boy. Terrified of water. And heights. Forced to go down the tallest slide in the world. And something about a fish, I think. All in thirty-three minutes. “Kids will love it!” he added.
I gave my head a thorough scratch because the proof is always in the pudding with these things.
“Which shelf will it go on?” I asked. “You know, in the bookshop?”
He just shrugged. Like he’d barely thought of that.
But I did read it in the end.
“Not half bad,” I said. “But pretty dark for you. And plenty twisty. My goodness, it’s twisty as anything.”
He nodded, smiled, and after some time went back to his typewriter.
