WRiTE CLUB 2015 - Bout #15

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 #15.  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 Contemporary Realistic Fiction genre and weighing in at 500 words, please welcome to the ring……..Missy Major

Sometimes the rushing hiss of a rainstorm can make the world feel like an empty shell. At least, it does today. The mug of coffee will never be able to reach the coldness I feel inside and out. Each patter of rain against the window raises a new goosebump on my flesh. A shiver starts at the back of my neck and spreads over my skin. I clasp the mug of steaming coffee a little tighter.

How long will it be this time?

The thing about Michael, that one bitter truth, is that he isn't mine. As much as I'd love to claim even the smallest part of him, it isn't a possibility. I know this. Really, I do. The most I hope is to be a fleeting thought at the periphery of his mind every so often. If I'm really indulging my fantasies, I imagine his tall frame striding into a thrift store. The sun will glint off a vase just so, or the delicate etching on an antique decanter will catch his eye and my name will whisper in his memory. Then, the moment will pass, but at least it happened.

Thunder rumbles low in the distance and I draw my robe tighter at the waist. Through the rain streaked window I watch the world dissolve into a gray haze. 

It's been ten days already. Ten days without Michael. There have been much longer stretches, of course. There have been some so long that I drew deep breaths and braced myself for the shards of reality to slash him from my life forever. Yet, some unexpected evening, the key would turn in the lock and he'd stroll in looking older but more radiant than ever. 

"Oh, Lil, you're up," he'd say, knowing full well I'm a night owl. "Do you happen to have a pot of coffee on?"

I’d mask my joy with a pretend frown. “What mischief have you been up to all this time? I was beginning to think I’d see you in the obits by now.”

His brown eyes would twinkle and we’d both laugh away the dusty collection of weeks of his absence until all that remained was cozy companionship once more.

I can’t help but smile as I think of it. It makes me wish this won’t be one of his prolonged absences, although I have nothing to do with it.

A timid throat clearing reminds me that I still have a purpose in life, separate from the whereabouts of Michael.

“Good morning, Tom!” I say, standing, as if I hadn’t already spent the morning daydreaming of Michael instead of planning the days meals for Tom. “Did you sleep well?”

“You know I get the best sleep of my life here. Finally getting to use that creative energy is exhausting!”

 
He smiles with crooked teeth, his bald head gleaming like a polished gazing ball. He’s a banker with a mind-altering thirst for poetry. I don’t expect he’ll ever publish anything but he tries.

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And in the other corner, representing the Science Fiction/Fantasy genre with 499 words let me introduce to you……….Aiden Brie

She had to be close. For the past year he’d grown stronger. He could feel her breath forcing the blood through his veins, feel her dragging him forward. He didn’t recognize himself anymore: dark, patchy skin; wrinkles etched into wrinkles; hair almost transparent, coarse, sparse.

This separation was intolerable. Infinite. He had to find her.

Now.

Of all the derelict planets on this derelict side of the galaxy, why’d she have to crash on Presser-7?

Here, they’d eat her alive.

The distant streaks of fire in the sky above the coastline had scorched his skin. He clambered up a steep overhang, legs aching, and squinted to search. Ahead of him, four kilometers through a scant forest, lay Yuca, a city of scattered shacks and merchant stalls and dirty children. Past that, settling into the tide, was the freshly burning remains of his ship.

She was as beautiful and broken as the day she had flung him off like a bucking horse, ignoring his desperate, shrieking protests, his death-grip on her hull, before she slammed into the sea. She had thrown him as far as she could, a millenium back. It had saved his life but crushed his heart. He’d watched cities rise and fall as he waited, alone, while her life sustained his for a thousand years.

He scrambled down the rocks and through the emaciated trees. In town he scanned the shops selling ocean glue candies and laser traps and Y-fuel cells and spiced stars and black market transbeamers. It was a copy of every other superstitious Cat-5 scavenger planet he’d ever sold to. He took a deep breath and it stung and he knew they were tearing her apart. Pain shot through his gut as he ran, groaning, toward the beach.

He crumpled onto the sand, gripping his head, and blood trickled from his ear. Scavengers had put out the fires and were climbing over her hull like ants, stripping her sails and rudder and deck for scraps. He screamed and pushed himself to his feet, staggering toward the men who didn’t know they were killing him. Killing her.

A scavenger saw him, cried Kalusa!, Wraith!, and they all shouted and rushed away from the old man dragging his bloody, ancient body toward them.

He collapsed against her. A rope dangled lazily over her side and he grabbed it and managed to heave himself up. He lay on her deck, breathed with her, slowly, the enchantment tingling in his fingertips. He pressed them into her, felt her grow warmer and warmer. He opened his eyes.

Her sails were growing back.

The burned scars ripping through her hull were melting away.

The deck was stretching back underneath him where it had been stripped.

He jumped up and laughed and whooped and she trembled beneath him, whole and perfect, and he felt her laugh, too. She rose until the city was nothing.

Then her sails caught a westerly interstellar wind and, with a roar, she flew toward the stars.

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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!