WRiTE CLUB 2015 - Bout #3

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 #3.  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 mystery genre and weighing in at 497 words, please welcome to the ring……..Primrose

I think the peaches were the wrong thing I noticed.  They were in a bag in the refrigerator, a plain plastic produce bag, tied in a knot at the top just like all the others.  Peaches.  Not nectarines, smooth and shiny, but three definitely fuzzy peaches.

I don’t like peaches.

It seemed a small thing at first, but it niggled at my mind.  Why would I have peaches in my fridge?  I moved things around, looking for any other strange vegetable kingdom materialization, but that was it.  At first.

Gregory--that’s my husband--said not to worry.  The doctors told us it would be some time before my brain was working normally.  Closed head trauma, they call it--severe closed head trauma with concussion.  Very scientific words to explain why my thoughts and memories are scrambled like eggs.

I like eggs.

God, I’ve been obsessed with food.  I think it’s because it is such a simple, available clue to who and what I was.  Am.  What I am.

There is a method to my thinking.  I call it Jennifer’s Scale of Order.  Food is simpler than clothes.  Clothes are simpler than work.  Work is simpler than friends.  I am simpler than I used to be.

I figured the scale out last week, scribbled it in my notebook in big, unfamiliar letters that crawled off the lines and up the page.  Gregory frowned and said my penmanship would probably improve along with my memory.  He was right; it’s a lot more even now, yet still not much like my old handwriting.

I don’t show my notebook to Gregory any more.  I’m beginning to think I don’t like him any better than I like peaches.

Doctor Carey, my psychiatrist, says, “Episodes of disorientation and emotional detachment aren’t rare with injuries like yours.  It will take time for everything to resolve.”  She really does sound that way.  She says the fog will clear.  Probably.  “Ninety-five percent of head injuries like yours are back to normal within a year.”

All I have to do is figure out how to fake everything until I get back to normal. How will I know I’m back to normal if I can’t remember what normal feels like?

Is it normal to look at a man I’ve been married to for four years and wonder how the two of us managed to stay together for so long?  I may be more than a little dysfunctional, but I’m pretty sure Gregory will be as pompous and overbearing in a year as he is now.

Did I always cringe every time he so much as touched me in passing?  Lord, I hope not.  That would mean I’m either an idiot or a masochist.  On the other hand, it’s more frightening to imagine making love to him and actually enjoying it.  I think I’d rather be one of the walking wounded than get naked with that man.  Wanting to be normal again is one thing, but there are limits.

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And in the other corner, representing the horror (light) genre with 500 words let me introduce to you……….Shimiqua

It was a regular Wednesday.

I was in math class, three rows back from the teacher, Ms. Fields, who was rocking feather earrings as she taught us about like polynomials or something. (Polyandry maybe?) I was doodling a unicorn on the corner of my notebook, and not taking notes.

I get distracted on occasion. And my life has a goal to make every day an occasion.

The unicorn needed earrings. I was deciding between giant hoops, and peacock feathers when David Hildelgo turned in his chair. I smiled. David was gorgeousness personified. He has these sparkly eyes, an oxy bright smile, and he always wears the wool hat that framed little tufts of light brown hair escaping from around his neck. He flashed his white white teeth, and I squinted as he spoke. “Do you have a pencil I could borrow?”

I said yes immediately, not because I had a pencil, but because when David Hildelgo asks you a question, you say yes. Immediately.

I pulled my battered messenger bag into my lap, unzipped it, and started searching through the empty folders and gum wrappers for a pen or a pencil or a writing utensil (that rhymes) so, by Gidgit, I would not let my disorganized life prove me a liar to THE David “Sparkly Eyes” Hildelgo, and I found something vaguely pen shaped and I held it up triumphantly, like LOOK AT ME WORLD! TODAY AVERY VANDERHOUSE WAS PREPARED!

It was a tampon.

David’s sparkly eyes went super wide, and then went super un-sparkly, like the angel holding the penlight to his eyes lowered his hands and said, “nope, shine elsewhere, Jerkwad.” And I know I should be embarrassed and all, but honestly I was kind of impressed by myself for actually having a tampon in my bag. Usually I’m begging one off my best living friend Zoe.

And that’s why I didn’t immediately put it back into my bag. David looked over at his friend and started laughing. My eyes narrowed. “Yeah, it’s a tampon. I have a tampon. I’m a girl, and sometimes girls need tampons, so grow up David Hildelgo and friend. At least I’m not prego.” I brandished the tampon for emphasis.

“You say that like you are doable, Freak,” David Hildelgo said.

My blood turned hot.

Every door, cupboard, and backpack swung open, and a thousand papers slammed into David Hildelgo’s wool hat. He covered his head with his arms, but it didn’t matter. He had paper cuts across his nose and above his eyebrows.

His thick perfect eyebrows.

“Gidgit, calm the heck down,” I whispered to my best dead friend.

The flow of papers stopped.

Everyone’s eyes were on me. I shrunk back in my seat, holding my messenger bag like it was a pillow, until prying eyes and giggling people went back to their math notes. Ms. Fields shook her head, her earrings dangling back and forth.

I drew feather earrings on the unicorn.

Like I said, it was a regular Wednesday.

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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!