WRiTE CLUB 2014 - The Finals

Here we are.  Two writers...but only one crown. Who will make an impression on the judges and be left standing?

Let me start off by congratulating not only Lord Codpiece and Cocktail Lion for surviving fourteen weeks of grueling competition and landing here in the final round, but every single writer who was brave enough to submit an entry to my contest deserves a tip of the hat as well.  This is the part of WRiTE CLUB where...if you so desire...the masks come off.  I encourage everybody (except our finalist) to use the comments below to let us see who the person behind the pen name is.  I know there are a lot of fans who really want to find out more about you and your writing story.

I've already emailed our two finalist new 500 word writing sample to our panel of judges (forgot who they were? check out the list HERE) and I'll post the results, along with any critiques they provide, next Monday (Sept. 29th).  But that doesn't mean you don't get a say.  I've also posted their pieces below so you can have one final chance to vote.  If by some remarkable chance our judges come up with a split decision, your votes in the comments below will decide the tie-breaker.

I will be back on the Wednesday (Oct. ) after announcing the winner to post some takeaways from this season's WRiTE CLUB, and I'll also be asking for recommendations for what you'd like to see be different for next year. Make sure you stop by for that.

And now...for one last time this year....

In this corner, welcome to the ring our first finalist.....Lord Codpiece. Here are links to his/her original entry, his 2nd submission, and the edited 2nd.

I never fight a duel unless there’s profit involved, but the palace guards brooked no argument. They escorted me right to the torchlit green outside her majesty’s ballroom. Little Lord Peyton waited there, with a smirk on his pudgy face. Guests had crowded onto the balcony to watch. They lined the rail in their peacock finery, still unaware that I’d purloined most of their coins and jewelry.

The guard-captain took me aside. He was a grim-faced man of middling years, his beard tinged with grey. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.

“That makes two of us,” I said.

He handed me a sword, a rapier with a sweeping hilt. The balance felt right. The smooth leather handle spoke of use.

“Yours?” I asked.

“I’ll be needing it back, after,” he said.

“Of course. Thank you, captain.”

He grunted. “Don’t thank me yet.”

He stalked to the middle of the green. I followed, wincing at the soft metallic clinks from my pockets.

Lord Peyton’s son looked like a brawler. It said something about a man when he brought his own sword to the queen’s gala. He wasn’t as drunk as he’d seemed when he challenged me, either. Now he conferred with his father, while the audience grew restless. Soon enough, someone would notice an empty purse or a missing necklace. I had to move this along.

“Are you ready, m’lord?” I asked. “Or did you need a kiss from mother, too?”

He snarled, and came for me.

The guard-captain stepped between us. “Her majesty wishes the duel to end at first blood. I’ll have your word on it.”

“Agreed,” I said.

“Fine,” said young Peyton. His eyes promised murder.

He lunged for me the moment the other men stepped aside.

I parried. The impact nearly shook a diamond pendant out of my sleeve-pocket. “Thanks for the warning, m’lord,” I said.

He attacked again, thrusting for the heart. I dodged aside. Parry. Riposte. He left me several openings; I could have skewered him like a mutton roast. But if I did, I’d face even more scrutiny.

We scuffled again, locked blades. He threw a shoulder into me.

I stumbled back, clutching my chest. “You got me!”

He stopped his advance. “What?”

“You’ve drawn my blood, sir.”

“I did not!”

I lifted my shirt’s collar and peeked beneath. “Yes, indeed. Masterfully done, m’lord.” I bowed. “Victory is yours.”

“Let me see it!” He marched over and ripped my shirt open.

Then he stared, while the color drained from his face. Dozens of sickly-red pustules covered my torso, glistening in the torchlight.

“Blood plague!” he rasped. He turned and ran.

Everyone else fled, too. The balcony crowd surged away from the rail. Men shouted, women screamed as they trampled one another to get back inside.

I re-buttoned my shirt. A couple of the pustules came loose; I’d have to find better glue. I collected Peyton’s fine sword from where he’d dropped it, and slipped out into the night.

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And in the far corner our other finalist, let me re-introduce.... Cocktail Lion. Here are links to his/her original entry, his 2nd entry, and the edited 2nd entry.

Conley was deciding whether a dent in the ceiling resembled an alligator or an amoeba when he noticed the draft. The window had definitely been shut when his dad hugged him goodnight, air conditioner humming and rattling outside. Now a warm summer breeze flowed over his top bunk, making his forehead sticky.

Someone had opened a window. And what smelled so strong, like the zoo?

Conley sat up. Outside, something hard scratched the side of the house, and his fingers knotted the sheets.

Scritch, scritch, scritch. The sound got closer. So did the smell. Conley ran his hands through his messy brown hair. A week of exploration had barely put a dent in the brick house’s secrets, but he’d be ok with less mystery and intrigue after sunset. Not that he had a choice.

Don’t be a baby, Conley told himself. Enough babies in the family already.

He eased himself down his bunk’s ladder and crouched, motionless. He was a secret agent, unseen, unheard, un—aahh! He jumped as the scritch, scritch sound started and stopped.

Probably one of his mom’s apple trees, blowing in the wind.

Now he was just making excuses to get back in bed, but it was too late for that. No sleep for him until he closed the window…the creepy scritch-scritching window. Conley rubbed his freckled nose. Oh man. Wyatt was a little punk, but he would love this. Maybe he should accidentally wake up Wyatt…

He glanced at the bunk below his, but Wyatt was missing. Conley scanned the double-decker beds on the opposite wall. Rumpled sheets, both those bunks empty too. Maybe Wyatt “Super Eight” Hoss was trying to scare his big brother; it wouldn’t be the first time. But his little brothers were never this coordinated in their trickery.

Conley frowned and slid to the window.

Pretend you’re a spy, darkness is your friend. And this is just a drill…a spooky missing-brothers drill. He took a deep breath and leaned out. Hot air washed over his face and he wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, gross.” He finally placed the smell. It was the dry, fishy smell of the zoo’s reptile house.

Two eyes snapped open under the window, yellow-green headlights with vertical pupils. Conley yelled and threw himself back as a ten-foot lizard slithered through and crouched in his bedroom.

Oh wow, much bigger than a crocodile, more snakily-shaped.

Black claws sunk into the hardwood floor. Jet-black scales coated the beast, lines of crimson running down its back and belly. Its mouth curved in a menacing smile. Conley froze, hand on the door knob. How could he distract it?

Quick as a cobra, the reptile arched its long neck toward him.

Oh no. Secret agents don’t get trapped like this. Where’s my backup?

The smiling jaws paused a foot from his face…then the smile became very, very toothy. Conley turned to run. But like his brothers, he was too slow.

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Has anybody forgotten the WRiTE CLUB motto?  It’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audience out!