WRiTE CLUB 2015 - Special 4Way Cage Bout

If you showed up today expecting a quarter-final bout and are confused, then you should take some time and read my Sunday post HERE which will explain everything.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way...lets get going.  This special bout is between four writers...each in a separate corner...each with a new writing sample...and each given a special generic pen name for this one bout.  Your job is a little more complicated than a regular bout...vote for TWO samples that resonates with you the most.  It is not necessary to rank them in any order.

As always, we encourage mini-critiques of all pieces - but in a constructive way.

The voting for this special bout will remain open until Wednesday, July 8th at 6 PM CST.

Let's do this!

In the first corner I present to you Writer #1.


Pineapple-laced, baked to perfection ham assaults the deepest layers of nose. It careens through my head, triggering that annoying drooly effect. Like a dog about to get his Thanksgiving bone—that’s what I imagine I look like right now.

“Not yet,” William scolds, smacking my hungry fingers. “Coffee first.”

Brown liquid drizzles from the pot, into the most expensive looking mug I’ve ever laid eyes on. I swivel the tiny cup on the saucer, examining the fancy painted flowers and arc of the rim. This little thing could easily pay the light bill in my tiny apartment.

William lifts and blows at his steaming share of coffee. “Try without cream first. This is the best coffee in the world.”

I’ve visited my fair share of street corner coffee shops, always dumping enough sugar and cream to energize an entire army of preschoolers, but I’ll try it his way first. I sip at the hot energy. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” William says, rolling his eyes. “This is the best in the world. You’ll never taste better coffee than this.”

Another drizzle runs down my throat. It’s smooth. It’s warm. But, coffee connoisseur, I am not. I’ll just take his word for it.

Turning to the sound of bare feet thumping expensive hardwood floors, I see Steph. She plops in a chair across from me. “Ham and coffee? Sounds good to me,” she says, reaching for a slice of the baked goodness.

I nudge the pot of coffee her direction. “Try the coffee,” I say, in my most refined voice, like I know what I’m talking about and this fancy house and uppity food has been part of my life since birth.

“It’s Kopi Luwak. The best in the world,” William informs Steph.

I’m still on the fence about that whole best in the world thing. But whatever. I’ll drink the coffee if it means I can tear into that ham when my cup goes empty.

Steph cocks an eyebrow at the pot. “Isn’t that the coffee that’s made with monkey poop?”

Hot liquid spews from my mouth, across the table, across the beautifully dressed ham. “Excuse me? Monkey poo?”

“Not really,” William says, taking another drink. “Monkeys eat the coffee beans then poo them out. It enhances the bean’s flavor.” He says this all matter-of-factly, like drinking animal feces shouldn’t bother me in the least.

“That’s just not natural, William. It’s weird,” Steph says, swiping at giggle induced tears streaming her face.

I reach for an ice-clanking glass of water. Gulp after gulp, I attempt to dilute the poo bacteria swimming in my belly. “Do your parents know about this?”

“Of course,” he says. “They pay good money for this coffee. A hundred and fifty a pound.”

Water shoots from my nose, drowning the perfectly folded napkin on my plate. A hundred dollars for monkey shit—beyond crazy. Ready to bolt from my temporary life of luxury, I point at the meat on the table. “Where’d that ham come from?”
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In the next corner I present to you Writer #2.


Submission removed at writers request.

 

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In the far corner I present to you Writer #3.





I stood with Cliff’s buddies and watched as the bonfire’s light made their faces look warmer. Their matching Marine haircuts made it hard to tell them apart on a moonless night, so I clung to Cliff’s side as much out of fear of grabbing the wrong guy as out of affection. Through my favorite sweater I felt Cliff’s fingers wander down my spine and hook in the waistband of my jeans.

I still hadn’t worked up the nerve to tell Cliff my plan to transfer colleges, but I had until Sunday night before I had to get back to campus. I had twenty-four hours to change our lives.

“What’s your major?” one guy asked and took a swig of his longneck.

“Chemistry,” I squeaked. Did I just become a soprano? I tried to clear my throat.

“Evans got himself a smart girl,” the guy laughed, and then they all laughed. I smiled to give the impression I was laughing, too.

Yeah, I was smart enough to have a full scholarship waiting for me at a new college only fifteen minutes from his base. I would transfer and we’d date like a real couple. We would be together like other people in love without my mother’s snooty alma mater and the USMC getting between us. We would go for walks after class or just hang out in my dorm room without watching the clock because we could do it again the next day. We would finally be together.

“I think Shelby just needs to ditch that girls’ school and go to State,” said another guy.

This was it! The introduction that I’d been too nervous to say was said for me. I wasn’t even sure which one said it, but at that moment I could’ve hugged him.

“I think so, too” I tried to say, but my words were lost under Cliff’s voice.

“She needs to stay at her fancy girls’ college and get a real education.” Cliff punctuated his statement with a swig of beer.

Cliff’s voice sounded too harsh, like there would be no changing his mind. I noticed a look pass between two of his friends like there was something more going on here.

I didn’t hear much after that. Male voices swirled around me in a confusion of background noise. The flickering firelight made Cliff’s face ghoulish, but I couldn’t look away. I tried my best to breathe, but air didn’t help. Nothing was going to help. I had my answer-- Cliff didn’t want me.

“Shelby?” The Marine standing next to Cliff said my name and laughed. “You still with us?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” I smiled at Cliff’s buddies and tried to act normal.

“Sure you’re OK?” He wouldn’t let it go.

“I’ll survive.” I whispered, but he heard me.

He glared at Cliff, but Cliff didn’t look at him.

“Ready to go?” Cliff asked.

I nodded but couldn’t look away from the bonfire, and just like it, I couldn’t stop myself from crumbling to ashes.
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In the last corner I present to you Writer #4.



The tepid water lapped at his ankles, his feet slowly sinking in the hardened mud. Minnows darted around his toes, silver flashes and childhood memories. A thick haze clouded the forest of condos that now covered the distant side of the lake.

He sloshed his way back to shore, watching her as she bent down and picked up a rock. She smiled as she stood, tiny crow’s feet around her eyes, the wind gently tossing a wisp of blond hair across her face. Ancient hemlocks behind her dancing slowly in the breeze, approving of his lover.

“Watch this,” she said and cocked her arm back, a flat black rock between her thumb and fingers. The rock skimmed in the air over the lake, then hit the water at a perfect angle, propelling it onward, still in graceful flight. It skipped eight times before slipping under without a splash, ripples diffusing outward, their commotion the only blemish on the still surface.

She handed him a stone. It too was smooth and black. The sun had warmed it and it felt good in his hand. “Your turn.”

He clutched it and double pumped. “Stand back,” he said then released. The throw looked perfect and the rock skipped along the water two times but then belly-flopped with a splash.

Alison responded by skipping another stone, this one traveling further. He didn’t bother counting.

“Ten,” she said.

“Blind luck,” he replied. “And anyway, it was only nine.”

“Still beats you.” She kissed him gently. Her victory dance.

A kingfisher flew by, from one side of the cove to the other, blue with white patches on its wing and breast before it disappeared behind the trees.

“We’ve been doing this for a year,” he said, fully expecting her smile to fade. It didn’t.

“Yes. We have.”

He swallowed and glanced out over the lake again. “Maybe we can give it another year.” He didn’t look at her as he said it.

“Maybe.”

A cloud, small and sleek, raced by the sun, casting brief shadows across the water.

“Here, darling,” she said, stone in hand, stringing darling out, “be a sweetie and throw this rock for me. And then hand me a wipe so I can clean my hand.”

It was a terrible imitation of his wife, but that’s how she thought of her and he never bothered to counter it. He grasped the rock and threw it, like he had in little league, playing right field, chasing down the balls that streamed past him. It went far, and stirred up a large splash that didn’t last long before the water regained it calmness, now still, a mirror image of sky and trees on the water’s edge, hiding forever the fact that a rock had just been deposited on the bottom of the lake.
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Leave your vote (and a mini-critique) for TWO of the above samples below and help determine who moves forward into the quarter-finals beginning later this week.

And always remember -- this is WRiTE CLUB...where the audience gets clobbered!