WRiTE CLUB 2015 - Bout #13

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 #13.  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 Fantasy/Adventure genre and weighing in at 469 words, please welcome to the ring……..Bookworm

“Can’t we get going, Mom? I don’t wanna be late,” I said, adjusting my seat belt.

She peered through the windshield. “There’s a lot of traffic,” she said. “Try to calm down.”

           

Our minivan bumped through a ditch. “How much farther? Maybe I should get out and run?”

           

“Don’t be silly,” Mom said. “You don’t want to show up on your first day all hot and sweaty.”

           

“I don’t wanna be the last one there,” I said. “Everyone will stare at me.”

I pulled the visor mirror down and checked myself out. No breakfast on my face. No new zits today. My blonde hair was under control. My eyes were like chocolate. Would the kids call me an ‘oddball’ because my eyes didn’t match my hair?

I quit worrying. I had bigger things to think about.

           

We turned into the driveway at the Chuckle Factory with its high stone wall topped with barbed wire. Large orange alarm buttons stood out. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought it was a prison. I snatched the sheet of instructions from my backpack. “It says turn left at the big iron gates.” 

We followed the road uphill through the pine trees to the back of a white brick building. Chuckle Security Techs stood guard in their purple and gold uniforms. Their matching helmets reflected the morning sun. They each held a long pole with a net against their shoulders.

Clusters of kids ran into the factory ahead of me, chuckling. I had my seat belt off before the car stopped moving.

           

“Wait one minute, Norman,” Mom said, grabbing the sleeve of my blue jumpsuit. “Give me a kiss for luck and say good-bye to your brother, too.”

           

“Oh, gross, do I have to?”

           

“If you want to get out of this car, you do.”

           

As quick as I could, I gave Mom a peck on the cheek and then climbed between the seats to the back. Bill had his ear buds in and was staring at his phone.

           

“Bye, Stupid Head,” I said, putting my hand over his phone.

           

“Hey,” he said, looking up. “Do good, Squirt. If your team loses, everyone at school will hate you.”

           

I hated it when he called me, ‘Squirt,’ just because he was 13 and I was only 11. He was a bigger version of me and he thought he was hot stuff.

I hated it even more when he was right. Chuckletown Middle had won the junior internship trophy every summer for the last five years. Since I’d be going there in the fall, it was my turn to be on the team and show we were the best. If we lost, I wouldn’t have a single friend next year. Or maybe ever.

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And in the other corner, representing the Romance genre with 500 words let me introduce to you……….Sarasota Jenkins

With her hat pulled low and sunglasses on, Anna wore her game face. She’d tried to avoid the replay of her match, wedging herself against the far wall, close to the windows. But like a person who can't shake the Mona Lisa's eyes, every spot offered perfect vantage of some TV perched high along the lounge's perimeter. Sun glinted off emerald courts, players glowed in tennis whites. It was, frankly, unfortunate.

Anna sighed, shifted, watched a toddler eat spilled crackers from the floor. Crossed her arms, scrolled through Twitter. But always, that magnetic tug on her eyes. Had she needed to, she could’ve made out the score at the bottom of the screen. But she knew the score.

"Our plane hasn’t even taken off from wherever the hell it’s coming from.” Squeezing in beside her, Jennie huffed out a sigh.

Anna looked past her friend's scowling face to the rain-streaked windows overlooking the tarmac. She folded her arms and dropped her head back against the wall.

“I know, right? Just let us get the eff out of London.”

Jennie’s elbow knocked against the newspaper held next to her, the pages rattling in response. Catching sight of a grainy photo, Anna leaned in to get a better view. There she was, all right, off balance and angled precariously, arms splayed out, racquet nowhere near a ball. It was that look on her face, though. Most people might only see exertion, but Anna saw more, and frustration coursed through her all over again.

Jennie held up her hand with a frown and quick shake of her head. “Look away,” she implored dramatically.

“Like… in that direction?” Anna nodded at the long row of seats in front of them. There was no mistaking the shock of white hair sticking up a good four inches over the heads of the other passengers.

Jennie’s face registered recognition. “Ah, the nutty professor of tennis coaches.” She leaned her shoulder into the wall. “Has he seen you?”

“Oh, yes. He gave me his best you-fucked-up-not-working-with-me smile.”

“And what did you do?”

“Closed my eyes, clicked my heels, and prayed I’d wake up not here.”

And seethed. It wasn’t coincidence seeing him. After her early loss in Rome, Anna had answered when Carsten Academy flashed on her phone’s screen. The locker room had been mostly empty, her thoughts mostly dark, and she’d given in to nostalgia. Her aunt hadn’t wasted a second gushing over the news that Bob Sherman – Bob Sherman! – would coach her through Wimbledon. Anna had listened, peeling away sweaty clothes, dropping them onto the floor. Her training lacked consistency. She had no focus. He would help. Anna responded with silence and Betsy changed tacks. Anna was a Carsten. They were professionals. It was hard working with someone new, but the coach she’d always had was gone…

His sister didn’t want to use his name, and Anna didn’t want to hear it. She slid her thumb over the screen and pushed it away a little longer.

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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!