WRiTE CLUB 2012 – Round 2

Did you hear it? I mean, seriously, how could you miss it? The roar of the crowd as WRiTE CLUB kicked off on Monday?  The participation was off the charts and we’re just getting rolling! Thank you to everyone who stopped by to vote, and special thanks to those of you who twittered and blogged about it. The voting will remain open for Round 1 until noon on Sunday, and the winner will be announced in the Round 3 post.

Before I bring out our combatants for Round 2, I'd like to take a moment to discuss the act of voting. I'm not here to tell you what criteria to use in deciding on your choice, or whether or not you should leave feedback for the contestants. Not my job! But what I will do is tell you what I envisioned for this contest.  This is NOT a flash fiction contest, meaning the submissions do not need to tell a whole story and have a satisfying ending all in the space of 500 words.  WRiTE CLUB is a writing contest, and most of the time writing has little to do with a story. Don't you have a passage from a treasured novel that is so beautifully written that it sticks in your mind? That's what I'm interested in. But I understand that people evaluate writing differently, and in WRITE CLUB just like the real world, choices are subjective. Remember this though, it is also a learning experience for the ones in the ring, and the spectators, so any feedback you can offer is extremely valuable.       

Hurry up now, find an open seat.  Things are getting a bit tight in here and it seems like the word about WRiTE CLUB has been making the rounds and tickets are going fast.  That's alright, we're all friends here so let's get cozy.  The action is about to begin once again.

So, without further ado....

Here are this week's randomly selected WRiTER's.

Standing in the far corner, weighing in at 491 words, please welcome to the ring……..Jason Andrews

My patience is wearing thin with you. You've been sitting on that bed for six days now, arms hugging your knees into your chest, whispering the same things:

"We are the light of a beautiful world."

"Logical thoughts are self-defeating."

You stare into the mirror where the TV used to be. These cheap motels insist on putting the television in prime bed-viewing position. I moved them before I rescued you, to free you from distractions. This room is your universe, little girl. You've lost yourself, and you'll stare into that mirror until you find yourself again.

No TV, no phone, no wake up calls, no chance of calling the other victims to rescue you.

You're only looking at the mirror. You aren't focusing. You used to be that girl the guys dreamed about: small town cheerleader, almost made prom queen, almost made homecoming queen. You even had a major role in the senior musical. Large schools don't have room for one person to fill so many roles, believe me. Hell, my graduating class was bigger than your whole town.

Damn. This isn't about me.

The room lets in the morning fog, but never lets it go. It hangs in the room, basting us with the heat of our own bodies. Look at yourself. Your bare arms glisten with sweat. You only eat once a day, and then just a few mouthfuls. You're starving yourself. Why?

The guru that seduced you made you eat nothing but rice, tofu, and peas. The smell of real food--burgers, fries, anything--should have woken you up.

"We are the light of a beautiful world."

Bullshit.

Since you didn't eat, I assaulted your ears. You didn't resist as I wrapped you up in the bed sheet, just like a mummy, pinning you down, pressure all over your body. I slipped the  buds into your ears and plugged you into some of the worst music I could find. That part was easy, the world is full of it.

Your parents, when they hired me, didn't question me when I took your CDs and a few stuffed animals from your room. They haven't changed it, you know? You might have grown up, gone to college, but that room looks like a twelve-year-old lives there. What is it with girls and stuffed animals?

"Logical thoughts are self-defeating." 

You're right. There's no logic in it. Like horses. I never understood the fascination and I studied these things. I majored in psychology and minored in brutality. The music you hated didn't drive you out, so I played you your favorite songs. All those anemic Disney crap pop anthems played one by one, and your lips continued the mantra.

Yeah, I read lips.  It's useful in this line of work.

What does the mantra do? Does the phrase keep you locked away from the world? You're not the first, you know. I've rescued others from him before you ever heard of him.

************************************************************************

And in the near corner, also weighing in at 488 words, give it up for ……….Katie R

Nobody commented on his Facebook post of a cute kitten reading a book. No-one appreciated him any more.

He traced the edges of two books on his desk, then polished each in turn with his sleeve, paying careful attention to the titles: Jules Stern and the Train Murder, and Jules Sterne and the Ice-pick Murderer. By Chadwick.

In the hallway his grandfather clock marked the seconds passing since he last produced a book while the rhythm echoed his agent’s words, “Get writing. Get writing”.

OK. He took a deep breath and typed, The author tried to think about his next best seller. If he doesn’t write the third one, he won’t to be able to pay his mortgage.

But before he could write another word, a voice whispered in his ear, “They told you not to give up your day job.”

Chadwick span round and stared at the man leaning over him. Through his terror, he registered that the tartan flat cap and matching bow tie looked familiar.

“Don’t I ring any bells?” Only one side of the man’s mouth lifted when he smiled.

“You’re…”

“Give me three minutes with him in the interview room and he’ll think he’s been chewing wormwood”. The voice was like a rusty hinge.

Jules Sterne had said that in the Train Murder.

The man paused to light a cigar before continuing, “Jules Stern. Won’t bother shaking hands.” He blew smoke in Chadwick’s face. “Having trouble writing, are you? Good.”

Bewildered, Chadwick yelped as Jules grabbed his ear. “They told you the ending was all wrong, you stupid fuck. You could have had a best-selling series. But no. Mr. Nobel-prize for Literature wouldn’t change it. WOULD HE?” He twisted the ear. “You had to kill me off, didn’t you? And now you can’t find a replacement.”

“I thought I could bring you back like JR in Dallas. You didn’t really die, it was all a dream…”

“You shiftless, maggot-headed author. I’d rather stay dead.” Jules roared. “But what I really object to is how you treated Lotje.”

Oh God, he was talking about the love-interest.

“You made me love that beautiful naïve girl. And she loved me.” Jules sniffed wetly. “Me. With this ugly mug. And what did you do?”

The burning cigar end came close to his eye as Chadwick muttered, “Lotje became a psycho ice-pick wielding killer.” And then she had murdered Jules in a grisly final chapter of the second book.

“But it’s what you made me do that really makes me angry.”

Chadwick, in his mind, relived Jules shooting Lotje through her right eye seconds before he drew his last breath.

“That hurt more than the ice-pick. You’re over, Chadwick. Finished.”

Chadwick whimpered as he glimpsed a pistol glint in the light. His brain told him to run but his legs would not move.

“An eye for an eye,” Jules murmured, his voice now as soft as a lover’s.

************************************************************************

You folks have your work cut out for you again.  It’s up to you to decide who moves forward to the playoffs, and who will return to WRiTE another day.  In the comments below leave your vote for the winner of round 2.  Get your friends to make a selection as well.  The voting will remain open until noon next Wednesday (8/8).  

Remember, here in WRiTE CLUB, it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audience out!