Congratulations go out to Eleven for winning round 28! He/she has been added to the list of all of the winners on the WRiTE CLUB 2012 results page As I mentioned previously, it would be a good idea to familiarize yourself with the winners before we move into the play-off rounds, where the pace really picks up.
If you missed Monday’s post you might want to drop back and check it out because I detailed how we will transition from the regular bouts into the play-offs and the format we will use. Whether you’re a contestant moving on or just a voter, it’s a good idea to familiarize yourself with it so you don’t miss out.
I also want to give some recognition to a long-time blogging buddy who turned their own WRiTE CLUB participation into something more. Nicki Elson, author of THREE DAVES, took the 500 word sample she submitted in the last year’s competition (Art Gallery was her pen name), polished it up and it’s been accepted for publication in the debut issue of Insatiable, a new literary magazine by White Cat Publications. It'll be out later this month. She’ll be posting about her experience and the part WRiTE CLUB played on her blog tomorrow, so please drop by and say hello.
How about another chance for someone to step into one of those coveted remaining slots!
Here are this rounds randomly selected WRiTER's.
Standing in the far corner, weighing in at 499 words, please welcome to the ring……..Jenky Slumgullion.
“Whatcha got for me, Ross?” Lukasik looked up from taping his scarred, meaty knuckles as his manager entered the ragged tent. “You got me down here for an open fight; you better have something good.”
“I’ve got something, Luke, just not sure you’re gonna like it.”
The fighter grinned, a lopsided smile made more skewed by the heavy scars that crisscrossed his bald head and broken face. “Sounds promising.”
The manager shrugged. “Maybe. You’re fightin’ a little femme.”
Lukasik paused. “You’re kidding.”
The tape creaked as the fighter made a fist. “Forget it. I ain’t helpin’ no suicidal. Disqualify her.”
“Can’t. You know the rules. Open fight. And she ain’t a suicide from the looks of her.”
Lukasik frowned, and the scars stretched his face into a nightmare mask. “Yeah?”
“She’s an endorph.”
“Aw, shit. Real?”
“Far as I can tell.”
The fighter popped his jaw, then muttered, “Mother fucker.”
* * *
A young, brunette woman, who called herself Sky, prowled the makeshift fight ring. Just don’t kill him, she thought. Bare-knuckles were illegal. So, naturally, they occurred in vacant buildings and paid stupid amounts of cash to the survivors. The longer the challengers lasted in the ring, the more money they took from the champion’s purse, if they survived to claim it. Sky didn’t need the money, but she wouldn’t pass it up.
Outside the ring, huge sums were being wagered. A wisp of a woman facing a killer like Lukasik was unleashing the animal in everyone. Normally, there’d be little money thrown down on such an obvious loser, but the six matte black beads paired at the bridge of her nose, above her upper lip, and below her lower lip were drawing tremendous speculation.
Those beads marked Sky as an endorph—a woman surgically altered by aliens. The beads were attached to nano-filaments that ran directly into her pituitary gland. With a little twist she got a shot of endorphins that shielded her from pain, turned her on, and made her feel invincible. Not that Sky planned to use them. Just the opposite; she was there to burn off the last juicing she’d given herself before she’d ordered her ship and crew into a brutal eleven-hour battle to free the planet-port, Sevim.
She coulda cooled off by screwing some stranger’s brains out, but this high was born from violence and was best used up that way too. However, Sky wasn’t her real name, and the hopped-up captain of a Tarad-class super-heavy destroyer would lose her rank if she pummeled her subordinates—even if it was medically necessary. So she stood within the concrete, graffitied carcass of a defunct cannery, surrounded by rabid fight patrons who were howling for blood.
And in the other corner, weighing in at 500 words, let me introduce to you ……..Patrice Croninville.
I have traveled over three hundred dusty, dangerous miles with Lubomir, but today may be the day I leave the fool behind.
“Please, Lubo. Get up.”
He smiles an idiot’s smile at me, all gums and milky blue eyes. He’s found a nest of giant carpenter ants and is plucking them out one by one, shoving them between his thick, wet lips.
“There’s another storm coming. We have to find shelter.” My voice is even. I don’t know if Lubo can hear the tension that pulls at my vocal chords, cracking the last syllable. If we’re out in the open when the storm hits, the rain will slough the skin right off our faces. But I can’t afford to send Lubo into a panic.
He plucks another fat black ant and offers it up to me like it’s a roast duck with crackling skin. Heavy clouds hang low and green in the sky behind him.
“No, I don’t want any. We have to leave now, or the rain will hurt us.”
A frown creases his fair brow. Does he still have memories of pain, before I came along and took him away from everything he knew? Does he remember what caused the scars that crisscross his back?
Losing patience, I seize his wrist and attempt to pull him to his feet. As if the iron will of a 90-pound girl could lift this mammoth. He yanks his arm back in surprise and sends me flying to my knees. The sharp burn tells me I’ve torn my trousers and my flesh.
“Lubo!” I scream in frustration, raising a fist. It takes every ounce of self-control to stop myself. I want to strike him, badly, but that wouldn’t be right. Not after all he’s been through. Not after all I’ve been through. I won’t be like them.
A crack of thunder rebounds through the valley. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’d rather leave him behind than lose my temper, so I rise to my feet. “Goodbye then. You can stay out here and feast on ants if you wish, but I’m not ready to die. Farewell, Lubo. Those must be awfully tasty ants. ”
On a lighter day, I would have laughed at the wild confusion written across his face. The expression is particularly charming. Instead I wheel around and march back up the road. We passed a rocky overhang a ways back that will serve my needs well enough. If I sprint, I may still make it in time.
He saved my life first. Then I saved his. We’re even. This is a clean break.
“Malin!” Tears well up in his eyes as he stumbles after me, breaking my heart. I am an evil, wicked girl.
I reach out with both arms. “Come on. We have to hurry.”
He may be a fool, but he’s the closest thing I have to a friend, and the only person in the world I can trust. He takes my hand, and we run.
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Remember, here in WRiTE CLUB, it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audience out!