WRiTE CLUB 2014 / Semi-Final Bout #2

Here is the last of the open voting rounds for the WRiTE CLUB 2014 playoffs.  This week we will narrow this list of contestants from four down to just two.  This is the second of two bouts...the first was on Tuesday and the other today...with our fighters randomly re-matched. The voting for both bouts will remain open until noon on Sunday (9/21).

The fighters have been given the opportunity to "tweak" or edit their current submission based on the input voters have left for them, and that is what will do battle in this round.  No wildcard winner.

The two fighters who make it to the finals will be asked to once more submit new 500 word writing samples, and that will be what is forwarded to our celebrity judges. Of course I'll post them here on my blog for you to comment on, but it will be our judges who make the final selection.

Our writers are ready, the crowd is restless, let's get this show on the road!

Stepping into the near corner, please welcome back to the ring...Cocktail Lion.

Unless you’re a cold-blooded reptile, outdoors is not a fun place to be during summer in Kansas. That’s why twelve-year-old Conley Hoss and his little brothers spent so much time in the neighborhood pool, even though it cramped their style.

    
“Cannonballs, on the count of three!” Conley stood poolside, water lapping his toes, arms windmilling. He made the mistake of glancing toward the deep water and one of the Pink Whales caught his eye. Sunglasses up, her gaze was red-rimmed…threatening.
        
In the middle of the pool, a pod of middle-aged ladies sipped Diet Coke and flipped paperbacks on queen-sized floats. Although their skin gleamed with coconut oil, the Pink Whales never browned up. That didn’t stop them from taking over the deep end every day.

“Guys, try not to splash.” Conley actually meant it.

Beside him, his brother Wyatt snorted. Kindness wasn’t his curse.

“One, two, three!” Knees tucked, the boys hit the water and plumes of spray showered the Pink Whales like tropical rain. When Conley surfaced, the ladies were shrieking and floundering like cats at sea. He smiled, guiltily, darn it.

“Your parents are in so much trouble for this! You Hosses don’t belong here!” The orca-woman’s fists rocked her inflatable as she shouted, then lost her balance and face-flopped into the depths. Spluh-plash.

Conley winced. Oh man, serious revenge factor now. And no other kids in the pool to blend in with.

Wyatt was laughing so hard he could barely keep his head above water.

Conley dunked Wyatt’s bobbing head and fled, bare feet slapping the pavement. Tanning kids on towels stopped tapping their phones to give him you’re-such-an-idiot looks. Another day, another whale attack, another gang of cooler-than-thou kids… Summer break was becoming a stress fracture. But as traumatic as the pool was, Conley’s neighborhood had other problems.

His home in prosperous Johnson County, Kansas, had a flat lawn and beige siding, like every other house in the Eagle Mountain subdivision. Conley’s dad joked that living in a cookie-cutter home was killing their souls. His mom called their house “The Prestige” because a movie with that name involved clones. A world of clones would be lonely and in a strange way, The Prestige was lonely too—at least for the Hosses.

Stick-thin with unruly hair, Conley wasn’t exactly one of the cool kids, although he blamed that partly on his lack of video game skills and his crazy little brothers. They deserved a page in his favorite book, the thrilling Deadly Perils: And How to Avoid Them. But “annoying perils” would be more like it.

Conley sometimes wondered why his family didn’t seem to fit in. Maybe it was because there were so many of them: four boys, counting baby James. Maybe it was because they resented their subdivision’s deceptive name—no eagles or mountains. Or maybe it was because they thought the pool was actually for swimming.

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And in the far corner, their willing opponent....Swick.

"This is no place for a little girl." The ‘coyote’ has inky hair, dull eyes, and a smile that belongs on a wolf. The sort of smuggler whose fees are more than money.

I raise my bow. "Good thing I’m no little girl."

"Estadounidense." He spits my nationality like a curse word.

"Mexican-American."

He clutches something in his pocket, not a gun—too risky this close to the border. Something he won't be able to use before my arrow pierces his heart. Blood rushes in my ears and I fight to keep my hands steady. This is the sort of thing Juanito trained me for. Now that it’s real, I feel unprepared without my partner.

But I’m not a little girl.

I lift my chin, tighten my grip on my weapon. "Leave this clearing and I'll let you live."

His wolfish smile widens.

Arms wrap around me from behind, trapping my bow at my side. Too busy twisting and writhing; I don’t see the first man coming at me until his boot collides with my torso. Sharp pain rockets up my ribcage and my vision flickers in and out like bad reception. He kicks me again before his partner releases me.

A fallen branch buries itself in my palm as I stumble to the dirt, unable to catch my breath. I crawl away and turn on my back, a groan escaping my lips as I yank the wood from my palm.

"Go back to the playground, little girl." The first man spits in my hair.

His partner laughs and, together, they leave the chaparral.

I crawl toward my bow, but lifting it sends stabs of pain through my whole torso.

"Robyn?"

"¡Juanito! ¡Aquí!" Black spots filter my vision as I try to sit up.

"What the hell happened?" His hard expression breaks at the sight of me lying in the dirt. He kneels beside me. "Were they armed?"

"Depends on whether you consider boots weapons. Shit, this hurts."

I am a little girl. I clench my hands to block the thought. Blood dribbles down my wrist.

Juan and one of the women help me to my feet. He does some quick first-aid on my palm, his jaw twitching more than ever. The woman tries to hand me her bottle of water, but after weeks in the desert, she needs it more than me.

"Can you walk?" Juan asks.

"Yes. But I can't raise my bow."

He draws his spare gun from its holster and holds it out. I shake my head. "Robyn--"

"No, Juan."

He sighs but stows his pistol, handing me a switchblade instead. I flick it open and carry it in my fist. My grip distracts me from the pain shooting through me with every step.

Juan shakes his head. "I'm taking you to the range. No arguments, or you will not come with me again."

I don't argue because we need to get the hell outta here.

But I won’t use the sort of weapon that killed my father.

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Please leave a vote in the comments section for the one who you believe deserves to move onto the finals. Voting for both semi-final bouts will remain open until noon on Sunday, September 21st. Help me spread the word about what is happening here.  Anyone can still vote.

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