WRiTE CLUB 2013 - Bout 1

After weeks of anticipation and build up, the time has finally arrived!  Gather around one and all, there are plenty of good seats left. Have you punched your ticket by signing up on the Linky List? No voting allowed unless you’ve done that first.

WRiTER’s from far and wide, spanning the globe, representing all ages and multiple styles of WRiTING, have gathered here today to witness the inaugural bout of the 2013 version of WRiTE CLUB!  Our illustrious WRiTER’s are not only from all walks of life, but they also occupy various levels of the publication world.  But none of that matters today, because the ring serves as the great equalizer.

Beginning today and spanning the next eight weeks, there will be two bouts per week between two randomly selected contestants.  One fight on Monday, and the second on Thursday.  Your task is simple...vote for the writing sample that resonates with you the most.  The voting for every fight will remain open for one full week. So a you can vote for a Monday battle anytime until midnight on Sunday, and you can vote for a Thursday brawl up until midnight the following Wednesday.  And when you vote you can do these anonymous writers a great service by leaving a brief critique of their work. Again...the only votes that count are by those people who have signed up on the Linky List. And when you do vote, your name goes into the hat for the drawing of a $75 Amazon gift card at the end of the season. One vote per person, per fight.

That's enough of my caterwauling...

Stepping into the far side of the ring, let me introduce to you our first contestant.  Weighing in at 498 words, representing the YA Fantasy genre, American Banshee.

Dollop held the swords with a practiced hand, turning slowly on the spot where she stood, her hands balancing the metal with no trace of hesitation. Back and forth she moved, her body twirling as her feet barely brushed the ground, arms circling with increasing speed as the blades caught the moonlight. Her dance carried her through paces of a varied pattern, unpredictable art. After several moments of this she began to sing:

Dance with me deadly

Sweet source of life

And come all the closer

To embrace my knife.

Sing with me sweetly

‘Neath moonlight or cloud,

My curse never-ending,

Our silence scream loud.

Dance with me deadly

All you of good cheer,

My steel shall meet yours

Each night of the year.

Her voice was smaller than you might expect from someone as bold as she, but it was as clear as the night, and carried a slight lilt that made it seem somehow normal. Perhaps that is because, to Dollop, singing and dancing with swords was the most natural thing in the world.

All the while the shadows drew nearer, lengthening in the face of the moonlight.

She continued to dance at the center of the clearing, still a safe distance from the newcomers to the scene, and they continued to slowly approach, just as she knew they would.

And then she came to a stop.

“Took your sweet time, dinna you?” she asked. “Come on, then.”

They rushed her.  

Each assailant was a full two heads taller than Dollop. They were dark, creatures of the night in full, with the whites of their eyes betraying the only traces of moonlight. This time they wore horns, large and curved away like a bull’s; but that was nothing new, the minotaur was a particular favorite look for them.

As they charged, Dollop counted slowly under her breath.

“One.”

Both swords twirled around her fingers. The shades were completely silent, just as they always were. There were fourteen of them, one for every year of her age.

“Two.”

And now they were upon her and she was moving, moving as nobody had ever seen her move: light-footed as usual, but seeming to be in a dozen places at once. She threw an elbow to the lead attacker, catching him straight between the eyes and following it with a backward thrust of a sword even as she lunged forward with her other blade, piercing another attacker right through the heart. There was no blood, only small eruptions of smoke followed by their bodies dissolving completely into shadow.

Dollop ducked a blow from a hairy and muscled arm, keen to avoid the claw attached to the end. She rolled away, through the legs of two attackers, springing to her feet behind them and running the follower through. Sensing movement behind her, she spun on her heel and ducked to a half-kneel, slicing upwards with both blades and bringing down two more. 

 
“Come on, then,” she said, panting only slightly.
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And in the other corner, also weighing in at 498 and representing the YA Fantasy genre, N.U. Endo.

“Hey, Luana, how much farther?”

“Few days, Boy. Oh, wipe that look off your face. It's just a bit of rain and wind. Get back to it. Secure the galley and hunker down, you hear me? Don't come up on deck until Hallox returns with the okay.” Luana smiles but it doesn't clear the worry in her eyes.

I do as I'm told, mostly. About the time I've finished strapping down the last of it, water floods in. At first, there’s not much, but soon it’s ankle deep. I'm not loving the idea of drowning down here. I stumble out of the galley toward the stairs. As I slosh through the cold water, I tell myself I’ll just take a quick look. When I get in the doorway at the top of the stairs, I freeze.

Crew are tied to the masts and railing. Lightning flashes, illuminating their faces. Massive waves pound the deck. The wind rips at the ropes holding the sails. One comes free as I cling to the door frame, fighting to stay upright. A figure darts across the deck. People yell, but the ocean is too loud, the wind too demanding and their words get lost in the void.

The sail snaps back and forth, the mast swaying and groaning against the chaotic movements of the fabric. Lightning flashes again revealing the figure. Luana runs for the loose rope.

The ship pitches sideways, a wave splashing across the deck. Luana’s feet are swept out from under her. Her hands barely catch hold of the rope. She dangles in mid-air for a second. When the ship crashes back down, her knees hit the deck. She scrambles to her feet and frantically reigns in the wild sail, securing it to its post.

I breathe out the air I'd been holding for her. It's such an amazing sight, I want to applaud. She clings to the mast, the ship rocking while rain pounds us. She doesn't know where to go. She eyes the direction she came from but doesn't move. I follow her eyes and see why. A gigantic wave barrels down on us like a wall of death.

I shout at her but my is voice lost in the roar. Lightning splits the sky again and again. I gesture wildly to her. Finally, she turns toward me. If she can get across the deck and down below, she'll be fine.

She spares one last glance at the wave and bolts my direction. Hope fills my chest. I reach for her with my free hand, the other in a death grip with the frame.

Her strong, calloused fingers close around mine just as the wave slams into us. The ship tips violently.­ I bash against the wall and stagger back as a flood pushes me down. Water fills my nose. The last I see of the deck is nothing but ocean. Luana's hand slips away from mine as I tumble backwards down the stairs.

 

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Enjoying two talented writers at work is only part of the price of admission, now it’s up to you to decide who moves forward to the playoffs.  In the comments below leave your vote for the winner of round 1.  Which one tickled your fancy?  Tell all of your friends to stop by, sign up, and make a selection as well.  Again, the voting for this round will remain open until noon Sunday.  Yes, it’s subjective, but so is the entire publishing world.  It’s as much about the readers as it is about the writers.  Here in WRiTE CLUB, it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audience out!