WRiTE CLUB 2015 - Quarterfinals Bout #1

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 started off with 171 entries, from which 40 were selected, and soon only six will remain.  (Just a reminder that voting for the 4way cage match remains open until 6PM today). Four will get the opportunity to move forward into the next week.  The voting for these quarter-final bouts will remain open until noon on Monday, July 13th at 6PM CST.  The first bout is today, followed by another on Thursday and the last one on Friday. Your task remains simple…read the submission below from each WRiTER carefully and leave your vote for the sample that resonates with you the most.  Please offer a mini-critique, if you have time.  After you vote, please blog/tweet/facebook/text/smoke signal everyone you know and get them to take part in the fun.

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 semi-finals.  

The winners will be posted after 6 PM on the WRiTE CLUB Scoreboard on July 13^th and then the semi-finals will kick off the very next day on Tuesday July 14th. Winners of these quarter finals will need to have their next all new 500 word submission ready to go. Now is not the time to fall asleep at the wheel. :)

Good luck to all of the WRiTER’s!

In the near corner, please welcome back to the ring with a Women's Fiction piece at 500 words -- Cloudwatcher. 

Except for the few minutes I came by to dress for June’s funeral, I hadn’t been in my apartment since I was wheeled away on the stretcher. Glass and wine and blood decorated the floor and counters. Clean. I had to clean. Bleach and brush changed the evidence of my flirtation with death from bright to muddy red. If I couldn’t get it out, I could pack up and move. And, lose my deposit.

But, even though my bandaged wrist throbbed and I didn’t like the stains, I felt good. Good that I had cleaned up my life—at least a bit—over the last three days at Gina’s. Good that I wasn’t going to drink—at least not tonight. Good that I didn’t dread going to bed.

Maybe it was voices or strange, crackling sounds that woke me at three that morning, but something made me get up and look out the peephole. The concave portal distorted my view of two policemen in the breezeway but focused it on a woman and a man standing nose-to-nose inside my neighbor’s open door. Their hands were clenched and they spat insults at each other in Spanish—no, Portuguese. When the policemen separated the combatants, my sight-line cleared. I saw a crib.

Brown, curly hair and large, frightened eyes momentarily appeared above the railing, then dropped from my view. Her pitiful sounds weren’t as loud as the Portuguese cursing, the cops’ commands, or the radio transmissions, but I could hear them. They turned into howls of terror when the woman charged at the man and sent him and a broken lamp to the floor.

“Looks like an arrest. Send a female officer,” said one policeman into his radio. “And they have a child. Get ahold of CPS.”

My stomach dropped. Gina…Pete. Going against my life-long, isolationist instincts, I pulled open my door and stepped into the drama.

“Don’t call CPS! That woman’s not her mother! Her mother’s at work—she’s a nurse.”

“Standby.”

I didn’t wait for permission. I sidestepped the flailing arms and overturned furniture to get to her. Then, for the first time in my life, I picked up a child.

That she immediately wrapped herself around me and buried her face into my neck surprised me, but I didn’t show it. More than anything, I didn’t want them to take her. I might have elaborated the extent of our neighborly connection, but promised that her capable mother would be home soon. I showed them my driver’s license and my bar card. Why I thought being a lawyer qualified me to take care of a traumatized child, I don’t know. I hid my bandage with my sleeve.

“What’s her name?” the policeman asked.

My heart raced.

What IS her name? Her mother said it a dozen times the other morning. Why was I so snotty? Emily? No. God, please help me remember.

“Emma!”

The child lifted her head and smiled at me, then resumed her safe position under my chin.
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And in the far corner, making their own return to the ring with a Gothic Retelling at 496 words -- Blythe.

My hands trembled, causing the flame of my candle to dip and shiver. The passage's shadows smothered everything but the sickly flame and the light seeping beneath the cold glass of the one-way mirror. Impatience engulfed my body as I stared into the mirror, my own eye reflected in a lurid yellow smear. I could not count how many times I had coaxed aside the glass and slipped into the Opéra’s sumptuous interior, yet tonight I paced like a pensive little boy, eyes on the dressing room door.

She should be here by now.

 I envisioned her traversing the opulent corridors, face flushed as men wrestled carnations into her arms and crowed their adoration. Those bastards saw nothing but a glimmer in the vast ocean of her being, a solitary twinkle on a resplendent diamond's back. They did not see her pace before each performance or whisper tearfully to her late father's portrait as I saw her do. Above all else, those buffoons knew nothing of the eleven years that I guided her from beyond her mirror, helping her coax angel's melodies from her mewling childish treble. That night, I stood in the shadows of my box, watching as she made her début, face shining as the audience clambered to their feet. She had done it at last, and it would be despicable of me to remain distant during her painstakingly earned triumph.

At long last, the door skittered open. She drifted, dreamy-eyed, into the room, her slave mistress's gown foaming around her. Captivated, I watched as she deposited a puddle of carnations onto her dressing table, smiling to herself. Straightening, she lifted her head and gazed into the mirror, obliviously meeting my gaze.

I ran a finger over my masked cheek, tracing the rotted flesh beneath the linen. Would she still regard me with such innocent adoration if she knew what horrors lurked beneath my mask? I did not wish to corrupt her spirit with my wretchedness, yet it was high time that I became a substantial presence in her life.

"Brava," I crooned, my reflected eye flashing. "You were extraordinary, my child."

She blushed. "Monsieur! You are too kind!"

She would say otherwise if she knew of the corpses in the attic, I thought. Out loud, I purred, "Are you quite available this evening, ma fée?"

 “I should think so, monsieur.” She smiled demurely. “I am forever in your debt!”

Perspiration dampened my glove as I slid aside the mirror, my gaze lingering on hers. Rapture clouded her eyes as she drifted towards me, her tapered fingers seeking my ruined ones.

The locked door rattled behind her.

My candle’s haggard light soaked her face, illuminating the sudden terror in her eyes.

“Do not be afraid,” I said softly. “It is I, your teacher!”

She blinked at me, hypnotized. “My…teacher…”

Urgent fists pounded the door. “Christine!”

So sorry, poor boy, I thought, guiding my muse into the gloom, but mademoiselle has chosen her master tonight!

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No, the choice is not easy...but if it were, this wouldn't be WRiTE CLUB...where the audience gets clobbered!