Welcome to the first
meeting of WRiTE CLUB. Those simple words began my little blogging experiment
back on October 23, 2011 and here we are almost five months later about to
crown us a champion. It's been a typical
ride, complete with ups and downs, wrong-turns and detours, and some truly
amazing scenery along the way. But whatever
path this trip has taken has been shaped by the talent of great writers and
your unending participation. Thank you
for recognizing the potential in what I was trying to do here and keeping the
gas tank filled. I'd like to see every generation
of WRiTE CLUB be bigger and better
than the previous, but that can only happen if we extend our presence to the
farthest reaches of the blogosphere, every nook and cranny, and get people
talking about...what they're not supposed to be talking about. :)
And one of the things they're NOT going to be talking about
is the battle about to be waged here today.
Standing before you now are two remarkable
WRiTER's, both with something to prove...that they deserve to be
the first ever
WRiTE CLUB Champion! Remember, the
WRiTE CLUB Champion will be awarded (apart from the nifty badge) a
signed copy of
UNTRACEBALE
by
Shelli Johannes-Wells, along
with a query critique and/or one hour consultation with her about marketing or
anything else. Shelli is a marketing whiz and picking her brain for an hour is
certainly a prize to cherish. The contestants will pit their new 500 word
sample against each other and leave it to you to decide their fate. You will have all week to decide, so take
your time, voting will close on noon, Sunday, March 18th. Visit the
WRiTE
CLUB page and read back over their previous submissions to get a feel
for their whole body of work if you like, but ultimately it comes down to today's
piece. There is only one voting restriction
for this final round, you must be a follower of my blog.
Okay, enough of this stalling and dramatic build up. Good luck to both
WRiTER's!
Casey Brooks
You can’t hurry love, or so people
say. But those people don’t have Cupid on speed dial.
Don’t get me wrong – being BFFs
with Cupid isn’t all red and rosy. I mean, there are times I really wish my
best friend could be there for me
rather than the poor girl going through an emotional crisis and four boxes of
Kleenex. All in all though, it does have its perks. Like how I get all the
juicy gossip on Hollywood couples before the tabloids even get a whiff, or the
fact that I’m the only girl in the world who doesn’t have to worry about going
stag to junior prom. But there are three things you need to know about Cupid:
1.
She’s
a girl. Yep, that’s right. In all honesty, can you picture a fat guy in a
diaper getting all mushy gushy about true love and soul mates? I thought not.
2.
It’s
a temporary position. Abby (the current Cupid) has only had the job for a year
and the gal before her only lasted four months. I guess you can only watch so
many first kisses before you want to gag yourself with a heart-shaped spoon.
3.
The
bow and arrow might not be real, but the magic sure is. Every month she can put
fifty people on the road to true bliss, complete with glitter, red hearts and
one of those fruity drinks with an umbrella in it—if she’s feeling particularly
generous that day.
But I’ve been waiting sorta-patiently
and now it’s my turn. I figured it wouldn’t be too hard to convince my best
friend to hurry things up for me and Mr. Too-Gorgeous-For-Words who just moved
in last week and is already the star quarterback and runner up for prom king. Talk about dreamboat.
But apparently Abby wasn’t on the
same boat.
“You’re not supposed to hook up
with Devin,” she said during study hall. “Besides, you’re going to fall hard
for Sean in a couple weeks.”
Oh. No. She. Didn’t.
“Sean?” I put as much scorn into
the name as I could without drawing the attention of Mr. Phipps. But he was too
engrossed in Better Homes and Gardens
to notice the scene I was putting on. “You can’t possibly mean the same Sean
who once put bubblegum in my hair and used to wear the same Batman t-shirt
every day for an entire year.”
“That was in second grade Jess, you’ll
get over it.” Then she had the audacity to wink.
I can tell you now though, that was
soooo not happening.
Anne Shirley
At 47, Ed Bowen thought love had surely passed him by.
He watched his friends marry and have children, shipping
gifts to them overseas from wherever in the world he happened to be writing at
the time. Each occasion reverberated in his mind like some alarm clock to which
he was forever running late.
Years passed, and still no woman with cinnamon hair and eyes
like the summer sky ever materialized.
But Gully did.
Ed hadn’t planned on getting a dog, having wandered into the
animal shelter on a whim, but that had changed the moment he laid eyes on the
shivering mutt.
“We’re grateful Gully will have a home,” the man had said.
“Looks like his previous owners beat him pretty badly.”
“His name’s Gully?”
“He was found in a dumpster, on a copy of Gulliver’s Travels
someone threw out.”
Ed didn’t consider himself superstitious, but this had been
too clear a sign to ignore.
Gully came home that night. He refused to sleep on the
blanket by the nightstand, where Ed’s own copy of Gulliver’s Travels
permanently resided, choosing instead to crouch in the corner in muted misery.
It became a challenge, winning the dog’s trust. Perhaps, Ed thought, heart lifting
whenever Gully approached without flinching, there are different kinds of love for each of us.
They began tentatively, progressing from small pats and
sniffs to Gully waiting by the door, tail twitching when Ed came home. He still
trembled at the sight of long, thin objects – from garden rakes to wooden
spoons – but grew bolder, until the night Ed found the dog’s head resting on
his knee. It felt like nothing had ever belonged to him more.
People smiled to see them playing in the park, inseparable
as father and son. Ed began taking Gully with him on business trips. Together,
they explored Canada, Greenland, Morocco – wherever his writing assignments
took them.
It seemed that Ed learned something new about his pet’s
personality every day, but it wasn’t until Gully began displaying a certain
talent for sniffing out money that he became alarmed.
At first, it was spare change: pennies on the sidewalk,
quarters under sofa cushions. Then it became dollar bills beneath a café table,
twenties strewn in a parking lot, a hundred bucks in a battered wallet the cops
said Ed could keep because no one ever came to claim it.
Each time, Gully wagged his tail with a self-satisfied
expression. Aren’t you proud of me? he
seemed to say.
And so it was that one day, on the shores of the Bahamas,
Gully’s barking interrupted Ed in the middle of writing.
“What is it, boy? Can’t this wait?”
But Gully would not rest until Ed followed him to a tamarind
grove, where – carved into a thick trunk – was an unmistakable X, with an arrow
pointing down into the soil.
Ed looked down at his dog.
The dog looked back, wagging his tail.
