Genre: Science Fiction
About Da ShlomLocation: Austin Home Region: Website: http://nnwm09.blogspot.com/ Favorite writers: Patricia Cornwell, Rick Riordan, Favorite music: Latin Chants, Israeli Ballads, Beethoven, Mozart, Regina Spektor, Nellie MacKay... Non-noveling interests: Are there? |
Joined: October 27, 2004 This Year: Official Participant NaNoWriMo History: NaNoWriMo posts: 16 NaNoWriMo buddies: 7
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Synopsis: Gumbo
A synopsis of a novel in progress during NaNo? Are you KIDDING? All I can do is share the inspiration for the title: I'm known for making seafood gumbo, draping tentacles over the sides of the bowls. Mmmmm, tentacles!
11/3 update: Okay, fine: mysterious black cylinders, called Al Naqba in the Middle East and The Disaster elsewhere, spring up all over earth. The are slowly spreading, and no one has a clue how to stop them -- or why they even exist. Pathos, tragedy, irony and word count ensue.
Excerpt: Gumbo
Gumbo should never have rhubarb in it. It’s a sure sign that the cook is NOT from here. But that was the least of the problems for Caroline O’Shaunnesey. Ladle in one hand, she was pushing the first set of bowls on the homeless men and women at the Saint Isidore of Seville, a shelter set up by one of the overmoneyed, clearly under-charitable computer multi-gazillionaires. They weren’t having any of it. Perhaps because they were put off by the squid and octopus tentacles hanging out the sides of each bowl. Or perhaps it was the sharp, almost acrid taste of rhubarb unaccompanied by sugar, as was the usual companion to that vitamin-rich leaf. That was Sister Ignatius Romany’s fault, but the ingredients, truthfully, were a direct result of the recent budget cuts. Scott McLellan might have been one of the church’s patrons, but the current economic crisis had definitely taken the dew off his generous philanthropic rose.
“What the hell is this?” demanded Chuck, one of the street regulars who had an almost patriarchal lock on the mission’s dining hall.
“Lunch,” Carolyn said, shortly. She tried to ladle more of the gumbo into his bowl, but Chuck dodged it, and Carolyn had to sweep the ladle around to keep it from spilling on the serving line.
“This is Ahab food!” Chuck said, retreating from the line. He was in the minority, apparently, because five unknowns pushed up to the serving line before he had time to draw a breath.
Carolyn set them up and got the line moving before even glancing in Chuck’s direction. “You don’t have to eat it,” she said, focusing on filling the bowls moving in front of her, “but if you’re going to whine about the food, do us all a favor and sit on the side. I’m sure we can set you up with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or something if you don’t like the soup of the day.”
Chuck grumbled wordlessly, but watched as two hundred people plus moved past Carolyn, each holding out a bowl in the hopes of nine hundred calories of protein, carbohydrates and things that at least touched vegetables.
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