WRiTE CLUB is a writing
community sensation sponsored by the DFWWriters Conference that is loosely based on the popular movie Fight Club. There are numerous versions of this concept
floating around the internet, but nothing like we do it here. This unique approach embodies simple,
good-natured competition, with lots and lots of fun sprinkled on top.
We've
narrowed the field down to ten and we're continuing on with the play-off rounds
– which will continue to come at a rapid fire pace, Mon-Fri. The
voting for all five bouts will remain open until noon on Sunday, July 5th. Your task remains simple…read the
submission from each WRiTER carefully and leave your vote for the sample that
resonates with you the most. If you
haven’t already done so in the previous rounds, offer some critique if you have
time. Anyone reading this can vote, so
blog/tweet/facebook/text/smoke signal everyone you know and get them to take
part in the fun. Vote on as many bouts
as you can get around to. Whether that
is one bout, or all five, how much you participate is up to you.
Here’s
something else to keep in mind for this round...every vote counts. That’s
because the contestant who doesn't win their bout…but garners the most votes
amongst all of the other losers…will become a wildcard winner and still advance
to the quarterfinals.
The
winners will be posted on the WRiTE CLUB Scoreboard late in the afternoon on July 5th and then the
quarterfinals will kick off the following Monday, July 6th, again with all
new 500 word submissions from the six advancing contestants.
Good
luck to all of the WRiTER’s!
And
now…..
In
this corner, representing the contemporary New Adult category and weighing in at 500 words, welcome.....Möbius
I
was named after a dead rock star. Not
because my parents were tattoo-branded, stalker-level fans, and not for dark
humour or in a memento mori mindset. Really, it was about the permanent
marijuana haze of the mid-90’s
Seattle party scene.
Supposedly
“Heart Shaped Box” was playing on the
radio during my mother’s epic taxi ride to
the hospital, where after soaking the back seat in amniotic fluids, she
pretended she couldn’t speak English.
She bolted up the hospital steps clutching a fire-brick sized cell phone like a
weapon while the taxi driver screamed about calling the police. She’d forgotten to
bring her wallet.
The
way she tells the story, she cleverly hid in the men’s bathroom until my
father brought the insurance information. My father says she ugly-cried
hysterically until the hospital staff sequestered her in a room with a
sedative.
That
is how two nineteen-year olds end up with a daughter called “Cobain”.
I
dreaded this every time I applied for a job. Explaining my name. It was always
the first question, prefaced by a startled-stiff expression on the interviewer’s face when they
realized both my chromosomes had two legs to stand on. No crippled ‘Y’ in the vicinity. I
had to politely answer even though the decision to not hire me had
already been made.
Despite
being over six feet tall. Despite three black-belts. Despite a healed knee
injury thwarting dreams of an Olympic gold medal.
But
this next interview might be different. I needed this interview to be
different.
Tucked
into a booth near the bar, I smoothed a hand over the baggy black pants I’d
found on the men’s
clearance rack yesterday. No feminine coloured shirts, no flattering dress
pants, no makeup or jewelry. I tried those. For an office job, sure. For a
night job that paid enough for University of Washington classes, no. I wasn’t a waitress or a
bartender, but club bouncer I could do.
If
anyone would hire me.
The
guy at the bar, Mason, his eyebrows had shot north when I said I was there for
the interview. Not surprising, but I kept hoping to be surprised. His arms were
wrapped in tattoo sleeves and he was reading a cooking magazine as he waited.
That was a little unexpected. He glanced at his phone and gave me a nod. “You can go in.”
My
chest was tight from the sports-bra squashing me flat. The slim folder holding
a copy of my resume was oil-slick in my hand. A fluttering impulse pressed me
to touch the lucky lotus necklace I’d left at home. Too pretty, too
delicate. My throat was naked.
This
time it had to be different.
I
pushed my shoulders back and down. Relax. Smile. No, don’t smile. Waitresses
smile and I’m no waitress. I
knuckle-rapped twice and opened the office door.
My
face froze in a started-stiff expression. This was certainly not what I
expected.
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And
in the other corner, representing the YA historical genre with 494 words let me
introduce to you………. Blythe
Mother’s
ring was the ugliest of my scanty possessions. Hideous though it was, it nested
upon the gaunt skin of my finger, festering like a dingy white boil. It was
only when moonlight soaked its brittle surface that it looked beautiful, a
luminous pool encased in silver. Sometimes, when I could not sleep, I hadn’t
anything to do but gaze upon it, my elbow pillowed on the flesh shackling Emma
and I together. We were not unlike that ring, she and I. We were but fractured
souls held captive in prisons of wasted flesh, lovely only to those who cared
to behold us in different light.
However,
upon that night, it was not Mother’s ring that occupied my thoughts. Rather, I
focused upon a ring of an entirely different sort, cocooned in a man’s
handkerchief and hidden in the shadows beneath the bed. Emma hadn’t the
faintest idea of its presence; it was the first time I had ever withheld
anything from her. But, as the ring was in my possession for seventeen days, it
was time I ignored my trepidation and unveiled the secret that could destroy my
sister’s life.
My heart
battered my ribs as I looked down at Emma, who stared blandly up at the
ceiling. Her usually pale features were soiled by the bruise ringing her left
eye, the result of our showman’s unforgiving knuckles. I too bore a similar
bruise, for we were to always look alike, lest we not truly be identical twins.
“Whatever
is the matter?” she murmured, her gaze finding mine. “Does your eye still ail
you? I cannot close mine without tearing at the pain.”
I
swallowed. “There is something I must show you.”
Her eyes
sparkled. “Well, go on then! Where is it?”
My voice
crumbled in a plaintive squeak. “Under the bed.”
She
swatted lightly at my arm. “You sneaky thing!”
I
watched as she wrestled aside the coverlet, a cunning smile on her lips. I draped
a quavering arm around her back, our breaths tangling as we hefted ourselves
up, our fingers rigid on each other’s spines. Agony ignited in my hip as I
gritted my teeth, flinching as our jaws clashed clumsily together. Perspiration
shimmered on Emma’s forehead as she wriggled forward, re-arranging her body so
that we were seated side by side.
Rather
than hastening for the bed’s edge, I froze in place, terror pervading my
senses. After all, how was I to reveal the shoddy paste pearl and deliver news that
would rob Emma of the meager freedom she possessed? For me to accept the
proposal would be to condemn her, reducing her to a mournful shade imprisoned
at the edges of my own happiness.
I could
not accept Geordie’s proposal.
“I’ve a
secret of my own,” Emma said abruptly, her soft voice shattering my thoughts.
I gaped
at her, my own plight forgotten. “What is it?”
She
gnawed her lower lip. “Braxton has asked me to marry him.”
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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.
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. 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!