Genre: Satire, Humor & Parody
About Radio-NowhereLocation: Auckland, New Zealand Home Region: Age:18 Favorite novels: One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey, The Outsiders by S.E Hinton, Misery by Stephen King, Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk Favorite writers: Stephen King & P.G. Wodehouse. Couldn't get two more different writers, I realize, but I like them both for different reasons. For some barely-middle ground, I also like reading Stephen Fry. Favorite music: I like to listen to very laid back music when writing, like Coldplay, Minnie Driver, The Shins, some Bruce Springsteen. Non-noveling interests: Film, theatre & acting. Scriptwriting. Comedy. Music (listening & playing). Rain & thunderstorms. Empty coffee shops. Reading. |
Joined: September 15, 2008 This Year: Official Participant NaNoWriMo History: NaNoWriMo posts: 68 NaNoWriMo buddies: 7
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Synopsis: A Harvest of Bad Company
When you were young, your mother may have told you never to pat a burning dog. A much more helpful piece of advice would have been to never make a deal with a reaper. Hugo Basildon-Wilde's mother didn't tell him either of those things.
* * *
In the tiny English town of Rye, harvesters sift through orchards and dry pear leaves for their spoils. Barely down the road, at the Rye Medical Centre, Dr. Hugo Basildon-Wilde is harvesting a human crop of his own. With his life ironically under siege by a degenerative disease, there seems to be few other options for a man pushed to the brink. But Hugo faces the biggest test of character when the lifesaving deal takes a turn; it's no longer "harvest the fallen acorns and bring them to me". He's got to pick them from the tree.
When you have no one else in your life, the lengths you will go to to save your own have nearly no limits. That doesn't make you selfish, but it does make you dangerous. Hugo Basildon-Wilde's mother didn't tell him that, either... but she did tell him how to make a cracking good pear cobbler.
Excerpt: A Harvest of Bad Company
“40,000 men and women die every day. Do you know how many reapers there are in my division?”
“No.”
“Well… neither do I. But there are more than that. It’s a big department. Some are in the prime locations, others…” He gestured around himself. “I take pride in my job, Hugo. I enjoy it. I don’t want to be stuck in a career where I make one or two collections a week. That’s going to look bad on my resume.” He raised his brows at me. “And you don’t want to die at the tender age of 45.”
“37.”
“Christ, are you?” Mort looked faintly embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“That’s alright.”
“But… anyway.” He batted the occurrence away with his hands. “It seems like you and me can do each other big favors. You need life, I’ve got life. I need souls…” Mort gestured around the morgue. “You’ve got ‘em.”
“Alright…”
Mort didn’t bother lowering his voice, since the only other people in the morgue weren’t going to tell anyone, but a sense of importance, of finality, of ‘listen-closely’-ness did descend on the conversation as Mort put to me the most important thing I would ever be asked; “What do you say we strike a deal?”
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