Just two rounds left.
Patrice Croninville captured round 31 and has now been added to the list of winners on the WRiTE CLUB 2012 results page All of this week’s bouts (there are four of them) will be open for voting only until noon on Sunday, so don’t dally. A list of all 36 winners, as well as a complete breakdown of how the play-offs will work and the format used, will be posted Sunday afternoon. The first set of play-off bouts begin on Monday.
Let’s keep the ball rolling!
Here are this rounds randomly selected WRiTER's.
Standing in the far corner, weighing in at 497 words, please welcome to the ring……..Alondra Larkin.
Irovel walked through the busy streets of Yonden Hithis, looking for a place where she could stand to watch the execution. Word had come up to her in the hills – Barjuk, her sister's murderer, had stood trial and been found guilty. He would die today.
The crowd made Irovel uncomfortable. If these people knew what she was, knew that she was different … well, she might just end up as dead as the prisoner standing by the execution block was about to be. There had to be a place she could watch without being jostled so much.
She looked up at the buildings lining the street, and saw one with a roof sturdy enough to climb on top of. Hurriedly, Irovel went around back and climbed the rain barrel to get onto it. She had always preferred the high ground.
The roof was empty, and she slid across it until she could see the heads of the people below. From above, the crowd varied little as her eyes swept across it to the wooden riser upon which stood the prisoner and his guards. The people were all so dark of hair and skin that she could hardly tell one from another. She knew the prisoner, though. That one could never hide from her. Trees would grow old and die before she would forget what he had done.
The executioner was a killer himself – only a fool would sacrifice his freedom to wear the wooden soldier’s mask that hid his face – but one who had subjected himself to the law instead of fleeing from justice. The magistrate, a clear-eyed woman, stepped up to pronounce sentence. “This man has killed with his face bared to the world. Now he will so die. Let it be done!” she said.
Irovel heard a sound from beside her, and turned to see a man climb onto the next rooftop. He too was masked, and he held a bow in his hand. He nocked an arrow and drew back, aiming for the magistrate. The crowd, oblivious, cried out with one voice. "Kill him! Kill the murderer!" Barjuk cringed at the sound.
“Stop!” Irovel shouted at the archer. He stopped; he had no choice. People down below who heard her froze in place, then turned to see who had spoken. Irovel crouched to hide her face from them. Her voice always carried the ring of truth, but giving a direct command was much more dangerous than simply speaking. Somebody might figure out what she was.
Across the street, the sentence was carried out. Irovel’s cry alerted the guards to the presence of the archer, and the executioner hurriedly escorted the magistrate down from the block before the assassin could recover.
Seeing his plot foiled, the masked archer turned and loosed his bow at Irovel instead. Pain blossomed in her shoulder, and she felt more than heard a loud pop. The seething anger in his gaze filled her vision as she tumbled to the street.
And in the near corner, weighing in at 497 words, let me introduce to you ……..Dark Alley.
“Don’t go walking down a dark street in the middle of the night,” they’d said. Good advice. I don’t take good advice. I seek what’s behind the warning.
Dark houses cast shadows in the waning light the moon. I can smell the sweet rancid decay of my prey getting stronger as I get closer.
I pull out my nines, the sting of blisters rubbing against my boots an annoyance, but I’ll take it out on them.
Them. I don’t know what to call them. The name doesn’t matter to me though. Killing them does.
I hear the snap of a twig down an alley between two houses. The cool metal of my guns centers me. I’ve done this many times before. The adrenaline coursing through my veins is a familiar friend. I am alert. I am sharp.
I am lying on the ground, my face in a puddle. My guns are gone. I have no idea what happened, but I know what stands over me.
I roll to my side, aware of where my attacker stands by the direction of its stink. I dodge its arms as it lunges after me, the knife from my boot in my hand as quick as thought.
Acid green eyes stare at me, its teeth snap together at the prospect of a meal. The skin of it is falling off in patches, the slimy muscles showing traces of green rot.
It comes at me.
I dance out of its way. My guns have to be around here somewhere, but I dare not look away from my enemy. It reaches a hand at me and I slash at it.
Its eyes are wild with fury as it lunges at me, ignoring the blade. I am tackled and the knife falls from my hand. I wrestle with the thing -attempt to keep its gaping maw away from me. I’m losing. The adrenaline in my veins doubles.
I drive my knee up to its groin, a panicked tactic, but it works. The sharp keening of its pain invades my ears. I scramble away, turn my back on it, and look for my guns.
I hand wraps around my ankle and I scream as I’m dragged backward. I kick at its face and hand on my leg. It comes at me again, and again my leg is in its hand. I pull myself backward and try desperately to get away. My hands grope to find something -anything- to get me away from this thing.
Its grip gets tighter. I kick and kick and gasp when my hand finds something thin and metal. I swing it at the creature with all of my strength just as it bites down on my calf.
A piece of re-bar sticks out of its head where it lay dead next to me. I pull my pant leg up to inspect the damage. There is no blood. It’s teeth never broke the skin.
New voters must sign up on the Linky List found by clicking on the badge below before making a choice. Remember, the voting for all of this week’s bouts will only remain open until noon on Sunday, October 21st.
Here in WRiTE CLUB, it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audience out!