WRiTE CLUB 2012 – Round 20

Round 17 was a tough one, but Camille Atwood was still standing when the bell rang. Her opponent, Sophia, will have her piece returned to the pool for a chance at re-selection for a future bout. Make sure you check my WRiTE CLUB 2012 results page for a breakdown of all the winners, along with links to all of the writing samples.  

How about some more details about how things will work in the play-off rounds, which is now only five weeks away.  As I said last week, after we get down to 18 there will be nine bouts which will yield 9 winners...and a 10th wildcard winner who will be the loser with the most amount of votes in their bout. Those 10 winners will then be asked to submit a NEW 500 word writing sample and those new submissions will be paired off for five new bouts, from which five winners will be chosen.  

More details later. :)

Ding.....Ding....Ding

 

Here are this rounds randomly selected WRiTER's.

This is the first week that the random number generator fell on a previous contestant, who returns to the ring ready for more.  Please welcome back to the ring, weighing in at 493 words, ……..Ratz.

As he poured tea into his wife’s cup, he fantasized about pulverizing her head with the iron skillet. A wistful smile flitted across his face, but quickly faded. Hell, he’d never be able to smash the smirk off her face. With his luck, her head would break the skillet.

“What’s taking so long?” she screeched. “Do I have to call Daddy?”

He muttered a curse before going to her. “No need,” he said, fighting the urge to dump the oolong into her lap.

She snapped her cellphone shut. “Good. Another satisfactory stalemate.”

He winced. According to her, they reached stalemate a dozen times a day. She’d never played a game of chess in her life, and wouldn’t know a stalemate if it bit her in the ass.

“Don’t give me that look. It’s your job to keep me happy,” she said. “Or you’ll lose everything. That’s the deal.”

“Some deal,” he muttered. “Here,” he said, handing her a plate of cookies. Maybe he should give that rat poison another shot. Put it in the cookies next time. It didn’t even upset her stomach when he put it in her tea. If anything, it made her meaner. Maybe she was part cockroach.

She opened her phone. “Guess I better let Daddy know you want out.”

The pulse pounded at his temples, and he narrowed his eyes. “Screw you and your half-assed bluffs! You’re damned right I want out.”

He ripped the phone out of her hand and threw it. “Want it? Fetch!”

She glared at him and pushed herself out of the chair.

He shoved her back down, and snarled, “Stalemate!”

She sat in stunned silence while he tied her hands and feet, and gagged when he waved a pair of panties under her nose. “Disgusting?” he said. “Two words for you: toilet paper.” He stuffed them into her mouth. “Now that you’re gonna be washing your own damned underwear, you might try using it once in a while.”

He turned on the TV. “Before I leave this hellhole, I’m going to spend five minutes watching what I want to watch, and eating what I want to eat.”

When he returned from the kitchen, he tossed a piece of popcorn into the air and caught it in his mouth. “Is that a tear I see? Don’t worry, darlin’. I’ve got some cash waiting for me offshore. Oh, but you aren’t really worried about me, are you? You’re worried about you.” He laughed. “Don’t worry. Your old man might find you before it’s too late. If he gives a damn.”

He caught three more pieces of popcorn in his mouth, and then abruptly stopped laughing. With eyes wide and watery, he banged a frantic Heimlich maneuver on his own chest.

When he fell to his knees, his face was already turning blue. He gaped at his wife’s triumphant smirk for the last time.

Stalemate?

He crumpled to the floor and closed his eyes.

Nope.

Endgame.

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And in the other corner, weighing in at 496 words, let me introduce to you ……..Brookside.

The mewling cry made Acacia’s heart pound and his eyes snapped open, breath coming in gasps to keep up with his pulse.

What was that?

He sat up on one elbow and crawled forward, pushing stray branches aside. The river opened up in front of him just in time to see the big man rise and stare down at the infant for long seconds.

It didn’t take long for Acacia to understand what he was seeing. The child was female, no doubt, and the father a poor man who could not afford another mouth to feed. The practice of leaving infants on riverbanks for the icy water to claim was not uncommon, but it was frowned upon, especially by the Church.

Acacia gulped. The baby’s cries had awakened his appetites, and his stomach clenched with fear when he realized the man was going to leave the infant there in the water. When the man hesitated, Acacia prayed he would reconsider and take the child back into the woods with him. When the man retreated without the baby, Acacia’s heart sank.

He lay back down on the frozen rocks, wringing his hands. He wished the water would carry the child away, out of his grasp, but the tiny, infantile cries persisted. He began to tremble. He told himself it was because of the cold, but he knew better.

One of the reasons he slept near the river, shivering most nights, was because it had the effect of cooling the passion in his blood. But this was too much. This was tempting fate too far.

He heard a loud gasp and sat up on his elbow again. A short, squat monk hurried into the river and gathered the baby into his arms. The noise of the river had masked the monk’s steps. While one part of Acacia cried out in anger at the sight, the more part of him sighed with relief. So the river had not carried the baby away, but the monk would, and Acacia would breathe easier.

The monk hurried away, probably hoping to save the infant, and Acacia sat listening until the child’s cries were swallowed up in the warbling of the river. Only then did he venture out onto the bank. He leaned over and splashed freezing water over his face and neck. It made his teeth chatter, but also cooled the passionate rhythm of his pulse that had been so unwittingly awakened. He righted his shirt, making sure the collar touched the nape of his neck in back so that his cursed tattoo was covered. If anyone saw that…

Shivering, he crawled back to his place on the cold rocks and wondered about what he’d just witnessed. If the child lived, it would be because she was meant to live; because God did not want her back yet. Acacia was not a church-going man, but he believed in God. Oh yes, that he did.

That was why he slept by the river.

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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!