WRiTE CLUB 2015 - Bout #9

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 #9.  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 495 words, please welcome to the ring……..Möbius

There was only water, and then, a small raft.

Essa hadn’t realized that the Edge of the World would be so calm. Like the pause of heartbeat and lung at the end of an exhalation, there was that same kind of dead-air, of waiting, of uncertainty whether another breath could be drawn.

Far different from journey along the rocky coastline, the capricious currents, and the storms that shook and spun until her bearings were more tangled than a rogue fishing line dredged-up from the reef.

The water was still other than the ripple from her paddle and the bow of what had once been a boat, before the waves, before the dark, before the wind that scooped her like a gull scoops an oyster and dashes it to splinters.

This was an uneasy quiet.

For only gods and monsters lived at the end of the world, and Essa had come to beg and barter. To sacrifice, if necessary, if that was the price asked. Out here, or in the Wilds, there was no guarantee who would answer first: one who could be persuaded to help, or one who would devour with the swift ruthlessness of a winter gale.

She lay the paddle down and drew a whale-bone knife from her pack. The trick was where to cut, where it would bleed deep enough to summon, yet where it could easily be bound. Hands were definitely out. It would be impossible to make the long trek back.

If there was a long trek back.

Choosing where to cut, that was a small, manageable decision. Thinking about what would happen after...

Essa lurched back, the paddle knocked wide with a splash. It was the reflection of her own eyes that had spooked her. Too wide, too scared, too young-looking for a warrior, for the one chosen and blessed by her village.

Blood thrummed in her ears, pulled and pushed by the gravitational force of her fear. She shut her eyes and drew a breath.

This too was small. This too was manageable.

It was important to master what was in her reach, because so much was not. Not the ocean, not the sky, not the run of fish spawning in the rivers, and certainly not the gods and monsters at the end of the world.

Retrieving the paddle, yes, that was within her means. The seal-intestine towline was strong, supple, and still tied tightly to her ankle. Essa pulled it in, hand over hand, the paddle slicing a low wake until she fished it to safety.

She crept forward and stared past her reflection, past the surface, past what she could see and control, into the far-off deep. Each challenge, each step had been building to this moment. She was strong. She was brave. She was loved. Her blood would call a god, not a monster.

It had to.

And above her temple, along the hairline, she cut, and she bled.

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And in the other corner, representing the urban fantasy genre with 498 words let me introduce to you……….Gram Cracker

I twirled a single snake around my index finger like a long green ribbon. The other snakes on my head nipped at the bobbing zipper on my blue dress as I power-walked down the sidewalk surrounded by a mass of fellow New Yorkers. Sidewalks here were like a benevolent god we bowed our heads to but never acknowledged, and our sole prayer was to keep moving forward. The gorgon deep within me fought hard to keep me still, especially today on the birthday I feared the most. Did humans hate turning thirty as much as I did?

Hell, I'd take a slice of existential crisis with a regretful hangover crust instead of registering with the government. Imagine if the first time you saw yourself might be the last time you took a breath. The safer option was never to leave the gorgon homeland, the Isle of Stone, in the first place. Never try to live among humans and the fallen Greek gods and make a life for yourself.

But I was never one to play it safe.

Immortal friends and student loans would be my financial death. My Brooklyn death, on the other hand, now loomed ahead, blurring in the distance like a dark and murky nightmare.

The Center of Sorrow and Sisterhood or CSS was a bleak gray building with a lone black door at the front. It was both a savior and destroyer for young gorgons like me. On our thirtieth birthday, we either exited the front or shuffled out the back like a failed experiment. I shifted the protective goggles on my face to ease the bite of the frosty late autumn air.

No gorgons escaped this date with destiny.

Thirty was the age we discovered if we're cursed to turn living things into stone, cursed to live on the dreadfully drab and far away Isle of Stone. I refused to return to a place with dial-up Internet. 

I was due to make an appearance at the center earlier in the day but instead spent my last possible hours soaking up as much of Brooklyn as possible. The air smelled differently here and I didn't want to forget it. If I were forced to leave, I'd miss the smell of freshly made bagels the most. Last night I dreamed I rode a bagel out to sea and drowned. That couldn't be good.  

My older cousin Leto waved as I neared the doomed building. She had a few years on me and the sorrow, aka the gorgon curse, skipped her. Would I be so lucky?

She grabbed my hand. "You better hurry. They shut the doors in twenty minutes and there's already a line. C'mon." 

I followed behind her as I always did in everything. She not only had age but height and financial security over me. I'd barely chipped away at my undergrad and grad student debt. My M.A. in immortal rehabilitation had come in handy on my job when dealing with immortals, Zeus especially.  

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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!