WRiTE CLUB 2015 – Bout #1

What is WRiTE CLUB?  It started off as a modest writing competition, inspiration loosely derived from the movie FIGHT CLUB, and it has since grown into a writing community sensation that is now sponsored by the DFWWriters Conference.  There are numerous versions of this concept floating around the internet, but nothing like we do it here.  Its essence embodies simple, good-natured competition, with lots and lots of fun sprinkled on top. 

Over the course of ten weeks I’ll be holding daily bouts (M-F) between Anonymous 500 word writing samples, submitted under a pen name.   The writing can be any genre, any style (even poetry) with the word count being the only restriction. Today is Bout #.  Read each sample carefully and then leave a vote in the comment section for the one that resonates with you the most.  Anyone can vote... but only once per bout. Don’t forget to leave with a brief critique of both submissions as well.

Voting for each bout will remain open for one week. The winner of each will be posted HERE, at the WRiTE CLUB scoreboard.  Are you ready?

Here are the first two randomly selected WRiTER's.

Standing in this corner, representing the general fiction genre and weighing in at 496 words, please welcome to the ring……..Calliope's Doormat

“Heads, we get married; tails we break up,” blasted the neon-gilded jukebox from the corner. I rolled my eyes, this was the new girl under thirty mantra-song. The girl who’d picked it turned to the table full of her friends and danced her way back, singing along.

Zeke downed the rest of his beer, and slammed a meaty hand on the dull bar. Pretzels clattered to the floor. He glared accusingly at the wayward snacks then at me. “Another beer, Billy.” He looked across the bar at the group of women as if they were in cahoots with the pretzels. “That’s bull, ya’ know.” Zeke drew out the word, “bull” until he sounded like one of the animals himself.

“I’m Mike, man,” I slid another MGD in front of him. “What’s bull?”

Zeke gestured pointed at the jukebox so hard he almost toppled to the floor. “That song, Billy, she made millions on it, and it’s just about her leaving her boyfriend. He wanted to marry her.”

“Well, yeah, chicks love that song, it makes them feel empowered.”

“Em-what?”

I reminded myself for the five hundredth time that I had to get out of this town. “It makes them feel like they’re in charge.” Zeke glared at me and I faltered. He was a good ole boy who would pound me easily. “They say she grew up here in Waxahachie.”

Zeke shrugged and rubbed his hands through his unruly dark hair. “Yeah, she did, I guess.”

One of the girls at the table in the back, the friend of the girl who’d picked the song, came up to the bar. “We’ll have another round, please.” Between the dancing, the rum, and her spiked heels, she tottered like a newborn foal. She started to tumble and Zeke reached out with a large arm and caught her at the small of her back to keep her from falling over. She turned to Zeke, and gave him a feral smile while he removed his hand. “Well, hi there. Thanks for your help.”

Zeke looked at her like something that was stuck to the bottom of his boot. He sneered and turned away.

“Fine, be that way.” She stormed back to her table.

Zeke gestured to his empty bottle and I shook my head. “Zeke, you gotta give me your keys if you want another one.”

Zeke took the keys out and threw them at me. I opened another MGD for him. “She’s hot, why didn’t you go for it.”

Zeke squinted at me and cocked his head to the side. I’ve been doing this a while and I know he was deciding which one of me was real. “Billy...”

“I’m still Mike,” I said.

“Billy, I’m not goin’ there.”

“Why not? She looked okay to me.” “I’m not gonna tap the fangirl when I had the real thing. I came up with that whole stupid idea about the coin and had to flip fuckin’ tails.”

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And in the other corner, representing the fantasy genre with 337 words, let me introduce to you……….Savannah

He was cold. He knew nothing but cold, though, it was the same to him as warm is to us.

He gleamed in the moonlight, reflecting it. like a child being smiled on by a parent smiles back.

He was small enough that someone watching from far away would not have recognized him as a snowman, or even a snow child. He was small enough that the woods surrounding him looked even larger than they were, and they were large. He raised chubby arms to the trees as if asking to be picked up, but trees know nothing of stooping. One tossed him a bit of branch tip to play with, and the snow child tucked it behind where an ear might have been, if he had had ears.

He sat in the snow after a bit, playing the way small children play in snow – digging holes, and filling them. If someone had been listening, they might have heard a tiny hum. Or they might not. They might have heard snow being shifted by the wind.

A small rabbit, hunted, saw the holes being dug and ran for shelter. The snow child did not know rabbits, but he knew smallness. He was a tree to the rabbit. He curled around it, making it vanish. Keeping it safe.

But snow children have no smell. Rabbits do. To the hungry fox, the snow child was transparent. The fox ran to the heap of snow that held the rabbit and began to dig.

If someone had been there, they would have heard snow flying from the paws of the fox. Seen it sparkling in the air as it took flight, returning to the sky.

Someone was there.

Someone who could stoop to touch the earth, to lift a snow child and an astonished rabbit. Someone who could put them where no fox could follow. If you had been there, you would have seen her gleaming smile.

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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.  Which one tickled your fancy?  After you vote please tell all of your friends to stop by and make a selection as well (but no coaching about who to vote for).  Yes, it’s subjective, but so is the entire publishing world.  It’s as much about the readers as it is about the writers. 

This is WRiTE CLUB – the contest where the audience gets clobbered!