WRiTE CLUB 2015 - Bout #17

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. 

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 #17.  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 CLUBscoreboard.  Are you ready?

Here are todays randomly selected WRiTER's.

Standing in this corner, representing the Contemporary genre and weighing in at 500 words, please welcome to the ring……..Commando Grace

It shouldn’t be hard for a girl to remember her underpants, but I almost left mine at home again. I guess that’s what I get for taking my brothers’ bet to go commando my entire freshman year. That, six hundred dollars, and questionable bragging rights, but none of that helps on the first day of your sophomore year when you’ve told your brother how his girlfriend spent the summer while he was away. I probably deserve to be stuffed in this locker. I curl my fingers around the underwear in my pocket. At least Taylor and her fiends didn’t find these. When the bell rings and the halls fill again, I’ll get someone to let me out. If I’m really lucky, I’ll have time to run to the restroom before second period.

“Is it true Wakefield High has a sophomore girl on the varsity soccer team?” The boy must be new if he has to ask. “Is she any good?” Definitely a new kid.

“Coach thinks so, but her six older brothers played for him—one of them still does, actually—so he might be biased.” Jake Miller’s voice comes muffled through the locker door.

“Is she… you know?”

“Endowed?” Jake asks.

Several of them laugh. I adjust my bra strap. Useless as it might be, at least I remembered one undergarment.

“Hey, what’s the big funny?” At Pete’s voice, I shove my fist, undies and all, into my mouth to keep from screaming. If only the others would go away, I could call out.

New Boy doesn’t seem to have an inside voice. “I was just asking if Soccer Chick is ho—”

“Soccer Chick is my sister, man.” Pete doesn’t sound amused.

New Boy’s answer is lost in the worst sound I can imagine. Metal squeaks, and then comes the unmistakable click of a released lock.The door swings open. New Boy steps back, his brown eyes wide as an owl’s, then crouches down and looks me in the eye. He must think he’s some kind of hero.

“I don’t know who you are or how you got into my locker…” He cocks his head to one side. “But is that a leopard print thong hanging from your braces?”

I twist the loose thread out of the bracket, ball up the underwear, and slap them into his outstretched hand. “I don’t know who you are or why you left your locker unlocked this morning, but you really could stock it with better snacks.” I crawl out of the locker and get to my feet. “I’ll see the rest of you boys at practice.”

My legs are stiff, but they’ll be loose enough to kick some butt by 3:30. I stride off with as much dignity as I can muster.

“Grace, your underwear!” Pete calls after me, but I ignore him.

His bet, his ex-girlfriend, his soccer buddies. Let him figure out what to with my underwear. I went commando for an entire year. What’s one more day?

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And in the other corner, representing the Speculative Fiction genre with 496 words let me introduce to you……….Tyrant H.

I run to the crash site, knife drawn. It’s a Range aircraft, and the pilot pulled off a damn good emergency landing in the small clearing. The plane’s right engine is on fire, and its solitary pilot is slumped over, head against the cockpit window. I could help the fire along, and let the pilot burn up so I wouldn’t have to face my enemy, but my curiosity, and a sense of the pilot’s humanity gets the best of me. The next thing I know, I’m dragging the limp body away from the wreckage.

I drop to my knees beside the injured pilot and remove the flight helmet. A boy, about eighteen—he’s beautiful—like the pre-Raphaelite paintings I’ve seen in the recluse’s mansion. Involuntarily, I run my fingers through his black mass of wavy hair. It’s longer than mine; The Unit shaved my head when we left, and I suddenly wish I looked more feminine. He shifts and groans in pain. For a second his eyes open, and I see a flash of blue before they roll back into his head.

I will not kill him.

There’s no time to lose. Becker will get to the crash site in about twenty minutes—the smoke will give it away. I drag the pilot into the thick bamboo on the edge of the clearing. God, I hope he doesn’t make any noise.

Then I have an ingenious idea.

I tear through the jungle to the tree holding the ancient WWII fighter jet, climb up, and cut my skeleton friend, “Ace,” from his harnesses.

“Sorry, pal. You’re about to save a life.”

Ace’s skeletal head bobbles a nod of assent, and his lipless mouth almost grins as I yank him from his long time seat. Thankfully he’s not too heavy for me to make great time and place him in the Range cockpit. I check my watch. Ten minutes.

Now, I need more fire.

Like a crazy person, I climb onto the plane and find the fuel jettison valve. I can turn it on and off and get enough fuel to set the area aflame. It’s an insane idea because the already burning engine could ignite the fuel and follow its path back to the tanks. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about Becker or anything else.

I turn the knob, press both the left and right jettisoning buttons on and off, and hear the fuel whoosh. No explosion. Now the rear of the plane is wet. It only takes a second for my lighter to catch the fuel-covered area on fire. The roar of the blaze builds. Success.

It’s ridiculous that losing my skeleton friend would make me sad, but it does. I watch the flame engulf him. Light glows through the eye sockets, and I sense he his seeing me for the first time. Suddenly I’m not sad but encouraged. I’m trading his companionship for someone who will speak back. The fire devours him.

“Goodbye, Ace.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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!