WRiTE CLUB 2015 - Bout #4

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 #4.  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 fantasy genre and weighing in at 486 words, please welcome to the ring……..Quill Thrill

Mr. Parker dipped a hand into his waistcoat and pulled out a pocket watch. He checked the time the way he assumed most rich, aristocratic men would do in such a situation. This action surely implied he was busy, had other appointments to attend and could not be left waiting. If the matron of the orphanage wanted one of her children to find a happy home, she had better skip to it.

In front of the fireplace, Mr Parker’s ‘wife’ sat in a green velvet armchair staring at the hot coals. She placed her hands in her lap then looked through the double doors leading to the sunny courtyard. There, the matron spoke in harsh whispers to the owner of the orphanage. Mrs Parker turned to Mr Parker. “For married folk they argue a lot.”

Mr. Parker smiled. “Should we argue?”

She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips.

His stomach tingled, as did other places, but he hadn’t paid her for that. Not today.

The matron returned then walked them through the courtyard, introducing the children one by one. But Mr Parker already knew what he was looking for. Rude, loud and confident – a boy hungry for adventure and who would, in time, relish the idea of impersonating a Lord’s son for riches. An aversion to sea sickness would be a bonus, too. And Mr Parker found him. The sea sickness would have to be tested but what stood before him was perfect. A boy of five or six fired his arms at a few older boys who merely laughed off the punches. Mr Parker pointed. “I want that one,” he said, forgetting to sound like a potentially loving parent and instead adopting the tone of a woman in a jewellery shop.

“Sam?!” the matron squeaked.

“Yes,” said Mr Parker.

The matron turned. “Sam, dear, do get off the floor and come here.”

Sam scrambled over, careful to avoid a final boot in the butt by one of the older boys.

“Hello,” said Mr Parker.

Sam pouted. “I ain’t dun nuffin’.”

Ah yes, lying before blame has even been placed. Another trait Mr Parker needed.

“Is that your misses?” Sam asked through missing milk teeth. “Are you his misses? When you kiss him, his beard scratches your face off, dunnit?”

Mr Parker was satisfied. He read nothing and signed all the necessary forms while Sam asked Mrs Parker if wearing a corset could make a woman’s breasts “go pop”. Happy, Mr Parker put Sam on his shoulders then left the orphanage. Equally as delighted, his ‘wife’ blew him a vermillion-lipped kiss and returned to work in the town’s shadowy alleys.

“Watch me swim,” said Sam the moment they reached the seashore. “Lemme get down.”

Mr Parker hoped that meant sea sickness wouldn’t be an issue and let Sam undress before the water’s edge. “Bollocks…” he whispered, both shocked and disappointed to find Sam had none.

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And in the other corner, representing the contemporary/science fiction genre with 499 words let me introduce to you……….Falphoenix



Deep breaths. Take deep breaths. Stop the shaking, inside and out. Push down the darkness, get through practice, then this suckhole of a day will be over.

I leaned my forehead against the row of lockers. Cold metal to hot skin.

The open locker shielded me from the rest of the team. Three minutes. All I needed was three minutes.

One breath for Father gifting me the fist-sized bruise below my shoulder blade.
One for my backpack vomiting my crap all over the hall before school even started.
One for the slap Amy Gosche laid on me when I pinched her butt.
One for the D+ on the math test.
One for Lindsey Buckner announcing I kissed like a wet fish. To the entire cafeteria.
One for—

BAM! My locker door smashed closed, then shimmied back open. My head jerked off the ringing metal as I spat out a long string of curses.

“Hey FRESHER!” Joe, a landmass of a linebacker, grinned at me with a rule-the-school smirk only seniors could pull off. “Gotcha, Corey. You meditating back here?”

I slapped the locker shut, rammed the lock home, and grabbed my helmet off the bench. Every muscle rang with tension as I said, “Outta the way, ass-wipe.” My helmet may have collided with his stomach as I pushed passed him. These things happen.

Joe’s hand, the size of a mallet, clamped onto my shoulder and spun me around. “What did you say?” His good-natured smile morphed into a pissed-off, upper classman scowl.

I yanked Joe’s hand off my shoulder. The rational part of me knew this was suicide, but the jangly, keening part of me begged for a fight. I couldn’t keep it in much longer. All the signs of an epic fail were there. Shaky hands. Jittery heart beating high and wild. Thoughts fogging to incomprehension.

Someone else’s hand landed on my shoulder, swung me around, and shoved me towards the door. Behind me, Trevor Pereira said, “Sorry, Joe. He’s in a mood.”

Another shove from Trevor, and we were headed out the door, Joe shouting at both of us to watch it. Trevor yelled “Okay!” Then, in a low voice, “That was stupid, Corey.”

I said, “Not your problem, Trev,” gritting my teeth in an effort to keep my voice from shaking.

“Yeah it is. I look bad when you act idiotic. I’m the freshman quarterback; I’m supposed to keep you in line.” Trevor’s even voice barely reached my ears.

“Good luck with that.” Three minutes. If I could breathe for three minutes, I had an outside chance of staying in control. I stalked away from Trevor and slowed to a walk once I caught up with the team, my head turtled into my shoulder pads.

Deep breaths. My hands were shaking. Caustic bile forced its way up my throat as I searched for something, anything to calm down and stop losing it.

Football players aren’t soothing. Someone slammed into my shoulder, and the darkness swept in.  

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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!