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Genre: Science Fiction
About MemaraeLocation: California Age:17 Favorite novels: Anything with amazing language, characters, or ideas. Right now I'm in love with Markus Zusak's "I am The Messenger" . Seriously, I would marry that book if it was legal! ;) Favorite writers: Diana Wynne Jones, Gordon Korman, Agatha Christe, The Brothers Grimm, Isaac Bashevis Singer, John Christopher, James Finn Garner, Terry Jones, Terry Pratchett, Anne Rice, Ursula K. LeGuinn, Shalom Alechiem, Markus Zusak, Fyodor Dostoyevsky...They've all taught me something important. (: Favorite music: Depends. I don't usually write well with music because I end up singing instead. ;) I do like Nightwish for dark scenes, though...I like R.E.M., too...Though the singing problem does occur. ;) Non-noveling interests: Mmm...How about the world, everything in it, and everything beyond it? ;) Learning is probably my biggest passion...I also love to read (of course!), have adventures, meet new people, look at holiday lights, collect autumn leaves, draw, hear stories, share stories, act, think, dream, dance, and play improv on the fiddle and piano...Really, I like to play improv on life. (: |
Joined: November 2, 2008 This Year: Official Participant NaNoWriMo History: NaNoWriMo posts: 249 NaNoWriMo buddies: 9
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Brief Author Bio: I'm an absolutely insane high school senior with a head that has become a playground for plotbunnies and feet that have a habit of fallowing my head up into the clouds (bad, because that usually leads to falling. ;) ). I want to spend my life studying just about *everything* (you name it, it fascinates me: string theory to string cheese!), and I have a crazy dream of doing something with my writing that changes the world for the better. |
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Synopsis: The Basalisk
It is 1866 and Professor H. I. Pittford rules enough of Earth to consider himself 'King of the World'. For the last seven years he has played with transforming the face of the planet in the 1800s: importing strange inventions and innovations from the twenty-first century to the nineteenth. Naturally, he is not unopposed, but an overwhelming majority of Earth's inhabitants regard him more as a savior than an invader.
However, Arnold, sixteen-year-old son of one of the few remaining farmers and self-declared enemy of the Professor, discovers the terrible secret of the Labs and decides to set a revolution into action. He confides his plans to his younger half-brother, Kinek, while trading the surplus apples at the town's market. But when Kinek helps the professor by pointing out the direction of a supposedly dangerous beast and then sets out to save it, tormented by a guilty conscience; a frustrated Arnold begins his attack on Pittford ahead of schedule and apart from reason.
Excerpt: The Basalisk
“A time machine?” I laughed. I could tell he thought I was as crazy as the passer-bys, but he was such a desperate, such a sad and lonely human that he couldn’t pass up even such supposedly unsavory companionship.
“That’s right,” He lifted his chin and I could see water rising in little dewdrops on his eye-balls.
Poor creature. He was bound by something as terrible as The Rules...Soemthing much less tender than the smothering “My child, my son...”
A thought hit me, and I looked at him, cocking my head to one side in shock and surprise as we continued along that burning hot walk that seemed more desert sand than moon-stone today.
Why! He was bound by the very fact that he wasn't bound. He was bound by the fact that bondage was dangled just out of reach, enticingly as that carrot humans like to set before a donkey...Humans are such cruel and ironic creatures! The fact that they half realize it, makes it all the more beautiful and wonderful.
“It's going to work!” He said, though I hadn't said anything. “It's going to work! It has to...” The last words were so desperate and soft that I barely caught them. And when I did they wavered in my mind with all that pain, all that zombie hope that I could see had been resurrected over and over again...
“Yes,” I said. “It will.”
“It will?” He glanced at me suspiciously with eyes of distant dream-vapor blue: the permanent residence of hope-zombies. It's funny, the humans who know that hope is dead often nurse it more tenderly than any others.
“Do you think I'm making fun of you? I'm not that type. If that sky's blue, your machine will work..”
“Word of honor?”
What was a word of honor? Words meant little to humans as far as I could tell, and honor seemed to mean even less...
“Word of honor,” I said meeting his eyes solemnly.
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