WRiTE CLUB 2015 - Bout #6

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 #6.  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 historic fiction genre and weighing in at 497 words, please welcome to the ring……..IrishInAmerica



Jesse sat by the hearth. The fire roared and she was wrapped in a quilt, an Indian blanket over her legs. Her face was pale and sallow, but bright spots of fever stained her cheeks.

"Do you want anything, love?" Adam asked her, handing his brother a mug of coffee and coming to touch her hot forehead. "A cup of tea? anything?"

"No, thanks," she replied, but he did not move away. "Really, I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, don't worry, Adam." She gave him an impish grin. "Go play with your shingles."

"Play!” Brian snorted. “Hear thet, Adam, she thinks it's play! She thinks we like climbin' up on thet roof in the cold an' wind, an’ hammerin' on our thumbs!"

"Don't you? I thought that was why you did it so often!"

"Haw-haw! Seems t’me you're the one who held up the works for three days with a broken fingernail!"

The finger in question had actually been smashed to a pulp, but Adam knew better than to look for sympathy from his twin. He held up his right hand, displayed the middle finger that was still black and swollen from the second knuckle. "Bends a little now, anyway. Well, let's get going. If you need anything, love, just holler. We'll be right outside. Come on, brother, what we don't start, we'll never finish."

There was only a portion of the last row of shingles to be placed when the cabin door squeaked. Adam looked down to see Jesse standing against it, her hair disheveled, her face so pale it was almost blue. The blanket was tangled around one ankle. She reached up to him, her face working, lips moving. But no sound came. As he stared at her in frozen horror, she grabbed her belly with both hands and crumpled to the ground.

He screamed her name and came sliding down to the edge of the roof, grabbed the lip with both hands and flipped himself over on to the ground. He fell heavily forward, but staggered to his feet and ran for her. Brian rushed from inside the barn, reaching her at the same time. They stood helplessly for a moment, looking at her, at each other, and then Adam grabbed her up and carried her inside.

Gently, he laid her on the bed. Tenderly, he brushed the hair back from her face. Her eyes were scarcely open, her breath came in little gasps. Her face was ashen and cold to the touch. She moaned piteously and rolled onto her side, drawing up her knees. Her husband whispered her name.

She reached for him but seemed not to know when he took her hand. She moaned again, and this time he caught her broken words.

“No, no, no. Oh, don’t hurt me! Adam, don’t let him hurt me!”

Oh, dear God, don’t let the dreams come back. Don’t let her feel this fear. Don’t let the baby come now. It's too soon. It's too soon.

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And in the other corner, representing the action/adventure genre with 498 words let me introduce to you……….Luke Warmwater.



A rumble came from deep in the dog’s throat.

“Jake, you hear that?”

Jacob Graham rolled over. “Huh?”

“Chief woke me up . . . I heard a noise downstairs.”

“Wind’s been keeping me awake, Ellie. Haven’t slept a wink all night.” Jake pulled the pillow over his head, but the Yellow Lab growled again and pattered to the bedroom door. The rancher sat up and glanced at the clock’s glowing red numbers. 2:17 AM. The display went blank. He yawned and scratched the stubble on his weathered face.

“Think it’s somebody in the barn again?” Ellie asked.

He shook his head. His family had lived on this ranch for generations. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had anything stolen, at least until the past few months. Ever since a real estate developer had bought up the surrounding ranches, tools had gone missing here, a pack saddle there. Nothing worth much. Jake had refused to sell, but now with his neighbors gone, it seemed someone was trying to steal the place one little bit at a time.

He tried the lamp. Nothing. A soft glow from the outside security light filtered in through a window. Still had power to the barn.

“Ellie, stay here.” Pulling on his robe, he fumbled in the bedside table for a flashlight. He paused, thought a moment, and grabbed his pistol.

“Don’t go down there. I’ll call 911.”

He patted her hand. “You know how the wiring is in this old house. Probably blew some breakers and you heard the fridge shut off.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “No need to get the sheriff out here this time of night.”

“But . . .”

“It’ll be alright. Gonna send Chief down first. Stay here.”

Jake eased open the bedroom door. The ancient floorboards of the second-story hallway creaked when he took a careful step. At the stairs, he paused, listened. A gentle breeze wafted up from below. The stench of dried sweat. His neck hair stood on end. Chief growled, bared his teeth.

Jake grabbed the dog’s collar, fumbling to hold both the flashlight and .45 auto with his other hand. “Easy, boy. Let’s take it slow.”

Downstairs, a hinge groaned. A thump. A muffled curse.

Jake released Chief’s collar. The aging dog tore down the steps, his tail arched high over his back. He charged into the kitchen. Jake hustled in behind him. The screen door screeched closed. He got the flashlight trained in time to see a man disappear into the darkness outside.

Chief rushed the opening, snarling like a lobo wolf.

“It’s alright, boy.” Jake slammed and bolted the kitchen door. He turned toward the wall phone and froze. The drawer beneath it, where he kept an extra gun. Open. And empty. He glanced around, grabbed the receiver. Dead. The bastard had not only cut the electricity, but the phone line, too. “Ellie,” he called, “get the cell.”

She answered with a scream. A pistol shot pierced the night. Then another.

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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!