WRiTE CLUB 2013 – Bout 8

Congratulations to Gordon Holmes for winning bout #6.

Today is a bit of a milestone, the mid-way point of the preliminary rounds for WRiTE CLUB!  After today there will be just eight more matches over the next four weeks before we head into the play-offs, and I can already feel the anticipation…or maybe its dread…building! Here’s a reminder for all of our contestants still in the hunt…if you make it past the first playoff round you’ll be required to submit a NEW 500 word sample to compete with, so don’t wait until the last minute.

Let’s get right to it…shall we?

Making their way through the ropes is today’s first combatant.  Weighing in at 499 words representing the Literary genre, give it up for S. King.

Washing dishes is a simple task, almost mindless in fact. It’s where my mind goes during this necessary task that kills my soul. Susan said I should just stuff everything in the dishwasher, pop in a detergent pack, let the machine do all the work. She said I deserve a break. I say I don’t deserve shit. But that’s the way life is; never what you expect—or want. Daydreaming out the kitchen window while my wife works the evening shift at JC Penney’s—a perfume spritzer I think they’re called— doesn’t help. In the mornings she waits tables at the Waffle Shack on Main.

This evening I’m finishing up the breakfast dishes while tonight’s dinner simmers on the stove; a pork chop recipe I found on the internet. A Blue jay stares at me through the kitchen window. I wonder if it can think like I think. Does it have hopes and dreams like I used to? A train’s whistle blows somewhere in the distance. A picture of a conductor, all muscle with soot coated overalls, fills my mind. I imagine a calloused hand tugging at the whistle string and glance longingly where my left hand used to be. I don’t see it as a problem, though. Doing dishes with one hand is just like doing them with two, only slower.

At a quarter to nine Susan comes in with a mind bending array of perfumes following her into the kitchen. She kisses me on a scarred cheek, barely suppressing a yawn behind her tired smile, then eyes the pork chops with only mild interest. Mechanically, she lugs her plate to the table. I picture the conductor again, wondering if he has a wife to go home to, and two hands to hold her tight.

Susan says something to me, her voice barely audible over the sound of her fork sliding around her plate, pushing her pork chop from one side to the other. She wants me to call the electric company tomorrow and see if they’ll take a partial payment. She says she wants me to do it because I have a kind voice, but that’s not the real reason. I see the apprehension on her face when she tells me to mention to them that I’m a veteran. I half-smile and tell her I’ll see what I can do.  

When I can bear the sadness in her eyes no longer, I gather the dishes and take my familiar spot at the kitchen sink. There’s a stiff south breeze blowing across the back yard. The porch light elongates the shadow of a tattered rope swing hanging from our oak tree. It was there when we bought the house two years ago, three months before I went to Iraq. I never bothered to take it down, maybe thinking one day my own child might use it, but the baby-making equipment went with the hand.

The train’s whistle moans again. I wonder where the conductor is off to now.         

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And in the other corner is their opponent who weighs in at 500 words and represents the YA Dystopian genre, let me introduce to you,  January Jones.

Blaze is already dead when I find him. My hand grazes the rough gatepost to check the latch, as my boot thuds against something I thought was just a shadow. He’s half buried in the snow, and I’m lucky I see him at all in the deep blue of an autumn twilight. In another hour the drifts will have completely covered him, hiding any evidence until the thaws of spring. Still, I have to look hard to see that there is evidence at all. The absence of blood doesn’t throw me. I know there are other ways to fell a beast.

I curse under my breath over forgotten mittens, as my bare fingers dive into the new and downy snow. Tucking dark strands of my long hair behind an ear with one hand, I find a rigid foot with the other. Then, breathing slowly to calm the sick feeling now rising, I begin dragging Blaze towards the house like a killed deer. My father will be sad to lose his favorite companion. He came to Pa as a puppy, fur all black and caramel, nose wet and dark like rain-soaked earth. At the thought of breaking the news, my stomach turns to stone. But as I walk in my slow trudge back to the house, fingers burning cold, dragging the weight behind me and trying not to stumble, my relief comes out in a puff. This time it’s only the dog. And I’m lucky for that, because next time it might be me buried lifeless in the snow.

Ours is the only house outside of the wall. Technically it’s part of the wall—the back of our stone cabin is built into our city’s great protection. And even though we tell ourselves that this makes our home safe, we live our lives jutting into that bleak space just before the forest, sticking out like a blemish on the face of Drosera.

As I plod back towards our modest home, I eye the forest. The depths are still, as if they have frozen just as I’ve tried to catch them coming for me. The fog of my gray breath hangs between us. I search into the webs of bare branches, but only darkness stares back. A chill that has nothing to do with the weather sweeps through my body, and I pull my gaze away. I’d rather live on the inside, but my father’s job doesn’t afford that luxury. The sentinels are the strength, but the gatekeeper is the steward. My father’s shifts are long and unheralded. But he helps keeps the city safe, which is valiant enough for me.

I drop Blaze on the porch, his leg falling with a thud. The sound makes the stone in my stomach churn. My numb hands push wearily against the steel reinforcements of our heavy cabin door. Fire glow greets me as I breathe in the familiar smells of mulled cider and stewing meat. Shedding my worn leather boots, I cross the threshold.

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As with every WRiTE CLUB bout, anyone can vote for their favorite writing sample…just make sure to sign up on the Linky Tool located HERE first.

As were fond of saying, at WRiTE CLUB it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audience out!