add as buddy
send NaNoMail
visit website
Genre: Satire, Humor & Parody
About SocioTomLocation: Brighton, Massachusetts Home Region: Age:25 Website: http://www.zerosharednickels.com/q Favorite novels: I greatly dislike trying to make this list. But I've read the two Dirk Gently novels by Douglas Adams over and over again, and the entire Discworld series. So that's something. Favorite writers: Egads, the list has just grown too long and too encompassing. Favorite music: Something that lets me focus. I'll let you know this year's selection when I know. Non-noveling interests: Music, walking, photography, video games, film & cinema, generally rocking out & geeking out |
Joined: October 21, 2007 This Year: Official Participant NaNoWriMo History: NaNoWriMo posts: 38 NaNoWriMo buddies: 11
|
|
Brief Author Bio: I write the way I fly: by the seat of my pants. |
|
Synopsis: Late Fees
When Doran Favardin first stepped through the rather unimpressive looking wooden door, he was just looking to hand out his resume. He was hired on the spot, and told he was going to be working in a library. What he didn't know what just how loosely the term "library" can be applied. Then again, he had no idea his coworkers would be witches, vampires, gnomes, and a dwarf with an armory hidden in its beard.
Five o'clock never seemed so far away before.
Excerpt: Late Fees
Njord looked around again, and held up his hand so as to block the sound of his voice from travelling very far. Which would have worked wonders if dwarves knew how to whisper.
“Tragic gilding accident.”
Doran stared at Njord. Njord stared back at Doran and shook his head. “Very sad, really.”
“He died by gilding?” Something deep in Doran was telling him that the best course of action would be to actually be in a dream, so that he could wake up and get prescribed things to keep this sort of moment from happening again.
“Well, let’s not jump to conclusions, boy. We did find his shoes, after all, and his feet weren’t in them. He could very well be somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Some… where” Njord said while waving his hands in incredibly vague sorts of ways. “We can’t prove he died, and we can’t prove he lived. So, he’s sort of out there somewhere, a sort of, a sort of, a, uh…”
“Schroedinger’s Librarian?”
“Haha, perfect boy!” Njord slapped Doran on the bicep. In response, Doran’s arm went numb.
SocioTom's Writing Buddies
|
|
