WRiTE CLUB 2015 - Bout #8

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 #8.  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 literary fantasy genre and weighing in at 441 words, please welcome to the ring……..T.L. Wynn

The cobblestone streets of downtown Moulinet glazed over with a tint of yellow as Minxy and I biked home. Cafés and bistros along our route were setting up for the morning rush, and the smell of coffee and fresh baked bread welcomed us at every corner. Dew clung to the lavenders and dahlias that lined our path, and I pictured us biking through one of those National Geographic postcards you always see at airport terminals—vivid in color, but too beautiful to be real.

When we finally made it back to my house, there was a light on in the parlor, and my heart skipped a beat.

“She’s here,” I blurted, before I could stop myself.

Minxy dropped her bike and made a dash for the front door. Normally, I would have raced after her—the two of us like squirrels sprinting across the lawn—but that morning, I found it hard to breathe, let alone run. It’d been over a year since I had last seen my mother, and until I was sure she was home, I couldn’t allow myself to celebrate. Not just yet. Like a dog that has been licked one too many times, I was excited about the chance to be happy, but wary that something this sweet would be too good to be true. I lowered my bike onto the lawn and made my way toward the front door, my hands in my pockets and my eyes locked on the pebble walkway beneath my feet.

But if there had been even a sliver of hope in my heart, it fizzled out the moment I stepped into the house. Where I had expected to see a suitcase in the hallway, there was none. Where I had pictured a pair of heels on the shoe rack, one never materialized into view. I forced myself into the parlor, and the floor beneath me withered away. The light I had seen from the street had only been a trick of the sun, a cruel deception of the rays through the curtains. A lump formed in the back of my throat, and I didn’t know whether to cry or be angry or both. All I knew was this: I hated her. I missed her. I hated her. I missed her. I just wanted her back.

“Ancel,” Minxy called from the hallway. “Stop playing with yourself and come here.”

Even though Minxy had seen me cry more times than I could count (more times than a boy my age should openly admit) I was ashamed of my weakness. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand before I followed her voice.

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And in the other corner, representing the historical fiction genre with 490 words let me introduce to you……….Robin Hood

They say you can't drown yourself on purpose. I keep trying to prove them wrong. It's not that I want to end it all. I just want to understand.

From the depths of our neighbor's pond, I look through murky water to the fading sunset above. Not a soul knows I'm here. My fingers cling to a slimy rock at the bottom, and I wait. Wait for the images to float away, disappear. An icy lake. My little sister. A black hole.

I let out a few air bubbles and wait until my lungs burn, wondering at what point a person gives up and sucks water into their lungs, instead of surfacing. I have no idea, because I'm able to swim up too easily, unlike Polly.

At the last second, when I can't take it anymore, I push off of the muddy pond floor. Breaking into open air, I inhale and sputter it out. In and out. Sometimes breathing hurts. I wonder how it feels not to breathe, ever again. I don't want to think about it anymore, so I swim in a circle, making sure I'm alone, and dive down again. My long brown hair swirls like seaweed around me. Maybe it'll choke away the memories, the pain.

Nothing hurts more than to think of Polly. I'd give anything to go back to that day to save her, to reach out to her, or run faster. But my feet had felt like boulders slowing me down . . . pulling Polly down.

I squeeze my eyes tight against the pain. If only the warm water would seep into my pores and wash my guilt away, but it's no use. My mind won't turn off tonight. I swim to the bank, blowing water out of my way. My knee scrapes against a rock at the bottom, and, angry at the pain, and angry at myself, I slap my hand on the water's surface as I stand. The evening breeze chills me, dripping in my bra and underwear.

A sob fights its way out of my throat, but I force it back. I can't let the tears begin, so I pull my clothes on, and shove my feet into Pa's work boots and stomp home.

A candle glints on the windowsill. It means Ma isn't home yet, which is good. She's still at the Pritchett's house, cleaning up after dinner, and putting the little ones to sleep. I'm sure Pa is in bed already. I don't have to worry about anyone seeing me sneak in. There is no one else.

I turn the worn, wooden, door handle to our house. Pa snores and gurgles as I inch the door open and shut it without a sound. I don't want to wake him and have him wonder why I'm all wet. Plus, he needs his sleep. He's been sick for a while—exactly seven months and fourteen days. Since the day Polly died.

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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!