WRiTE CLUB 2015 – Bout #11

WRiTE CLUB is a writing community sensation sponsored by the DFW Writers 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. 

Today we continue with the second phase of the contest which involves ten more daily bouts (M-F) over the next two weeks 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 #11.  Read each sample carefully and then leave a vote in the comment section for the one that resonates with you the most.  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 todays randomly selected WRiTER's.

Standing in this corner, representing the Sci-Fi/Thriller genre and weighing in at 500 words, please welcome to the ring……..Shibby

Derek rolled over, kicked the quilt off and looked at the clock. Three AM. Anna, his fiancé, tugged the covers exhaling heavily.

“What’s up?” She asked.

“It’s like a damn sauna in here.”

“Open the window or go watch TV. Just let me sleep,” she said and turned back over.

Derek climbed out of bed, made his way out of the bedroom and down the hallway. He flicked on the lights as he walked through the open plan living room to the kitchen.

“TV, on. News 24,” he said opening the fridge and grabbing the orange juice.

The television flashed on. A thin-faced woman with her hair tied back too tight sat reading the bulletins. In the bottom right hand corner a message read ‘Eight missed calls – Frank’.

Derek drained the contents of the orange juice carton and tossed it into the trash can.

“TV, call Frank,” he said heading toward the sofa. He slumped onto the black leather two-seater.

Frank answered immediately. His angular face appeared on the screen. The dim blue light of his television gave him a ghostly quality. “Hey Buddy. Thanks for calling back.”

“Do you ever sleep?”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead. What's your excuse?"

“Too hot,” Derek said. “So what’s up?”

“I’ve got something to show you,” Frank said. “Here look at this.” He turned in his chair and hit a few keys on the computer on his desk.

A video replaced Frank’s face, it was a recording of the assassination attempt on President Ford last year. Edward Peters shot the President three times in the chest and abdomen but the wounds inflicted weren’t fatal.

“What am I looking for?” Derek said.

“Come on Buddy. Don’t you see?" Frank’s face reappeared. Somebody stood in the background, dressed in black, wearing a mask and holding a gun.

“Frank,” Derek stood and pointed. “Behind you.”

Frank turned in his chair. The masked assailant raised his arm. Gun pointed at Frank’s forehead.

“NO!” Derek yelled. The corpse of his best friend slid out of the chair and out of the picture. Derek fell to the sofa. The intruder stood with emotionless eyes staring straight through the television.

“Derek?” The voice was rough and deep. “Derek. Are you going to sit there all day?”

It took him a moment to respond but he managed to choke it out eventually. “No.”

“Good. Look-“

“I’m going to sit here until I figure out a plan to rip your face off with my teeth you son of a bitch!”

“No need for that Buddy!” The man raised his hands and lifted the mask up. Frank’s smile beamed back at him.

“What the fuck?”

“Pretty cool isn’t it?” Frank said and moved the camera down to show the body. “Derek, let me introduce you to my clone.”

“Your. What?”

“My clone. Not a bad looking fella, if you ignore the hole in his face.” Frank was grinning from ear to ear. “I think you should come over here. Now.”

“I’ll get dressed.”

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And in the other corner, representing the Urban Fantasy genre with 494 words let me introduce to you……….Jaegur

“Wow, that’s my third birthday this month,” Jordan said, stopping to stretch his long arms toward the cloudy sky. Anna heard bones crack, her brother sighing in relief as he turned to grin down at her. They stood on the sidewalk just outside the breakfast diner, men and women walking briskly past them. People in suits made sure to keep a few extra feet between them and Anna and Jordan, as if sensing poverty and afraid it would jump into their wallets.

“I think you wasted this one,” Anna said, slipping her hands into the pockets of her jean jacket. The straps of her backpack dug into her shoulders, but the ache was a familiar one. “Somehow a bowl of whip cream with a square of pancake at the bottom doesn’t really scream ‘happy birthday’ to me.” She started walking, falling easily into the flow of traffic.

Jordan caught up to her a second later, his own pack slung onto one shoulder. “Some whip cream is better than no whip cream, I always say,” he said. She was silent, so he bumped into her, knocking her slightly off balance so that she in turn bumped into an older man in a tracksuit, his arms pumping like pistons on a freight train. The old man glared at her, clutching his iPod or whatever it was in a grip that might have crushed the thing, had the man been capable of it.

Anna muttered an apology, and shot a glare of her own at her brother. He just smiled and shrugged, saying, “Looked like you needed to meet someone new, maybe someone cheerful.”

“And that guy seemed cheerful to you,” she said, glancing at the man’s retreating back. He was shaking his head and seemed to be talking to himself.

“You love old people,” Jordan said as they started walking again. She ignored the glances they’d attracted. She was good at that.

“Wrong,” Anna said. “I don’t feel an overwhelming desire to punch old people… there’s a difference.”

“Means they’re pretty damn special,” Jordan murmured under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. He saw the look she was giving him and cringed. She would admit that she had a temper at times, but not that much of one. Really.

“Anyway, what are we doing today?” She asked.

“Union Station?”

“Sounds fine to me.” They came to a stop at the corner of Jackson and Adam’s street, the ‘don’t walk’ sign flashing its open palm at them. The smell of perfume and cologne from those standing around them swirled about her head, mingling with the smells of industry and chocolate that she was coming to associate with Chicago. She had no idea where the smell of chocolate came from, or if it was really even chocolate. For all she knew it could be some mixture of garbage and human refuse and her body just tricked her into believing it smelled like chocolate. Who knew?

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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.  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!