WRiTE CLUB 2016 - Bout #5

Time to once again lace up those gloves!

This caps off the first week of bouts (M-F) between writing samples that are identified only by the craftily selected pen names of the respective submitters. There will be two more weeks of preliminary skirmishes, then the playoffs will immediately follow. The writing can be from any genre, any age group, taken either from a larger piece of work or simply a stand alone flash fiction. The focus is on the writing...not the writer...or its categorization. The two writing samples for each bout will be randomly matched and step into the ring for a chance to find out what they're made of.

The winner of each contest is chosen by you...the reader.  Simply read each entry and leave your vote in the comment section below.  Anyone can vote, as long as you have a Google ID or belong to Google Friend Connect. Anonymous voting is not allowed. It is also customary to leave a brief critique of both pieces. You see, the comments are where the true value of this contest makes itself known. Not only do the contestants gain valuable insight about their work from those remarks, but everybody can benefit from how each piece is received and what works...and what doesn't. Please remember to remain respectful with your comments. If you see an opportunity for improvement, make it known in the most positive way possible.

How do you choose a winner? What criteria should be used? The method by which you determine who to vote for is entirely up to you.  Which one resonates with you the most? Which one makes you want to read more? Which one demonstrates a total command of the English language and how it can be used to elicit emotion or paint a mental picture you can't stop staring at. There is no hard and fast way rules for determining a winner -- and that's exactly what the publishing world is like. But today you get to decide.

The voting for each bout will remain open for one week, so even though a new bout will be posted every day, you don't miss out on anything if you miss a few days.  You can always catch up on several bouts at once if you so desire.  Once the voting period ends and the votes have been tabulated, the results will be posted HERE, on the WRiTE CLUB scorecard. After we make it through the 15 preliminary bouts, then the winners will have to continue on through cage matches, then play-offs, until there are only two left with a chance to win free admission to the 2017 DFW Writers Conference.

The voting for this bout - Bout #5 - remains open until noon on Thursday - March 17th.

That's the bell...and its trying to tell us something.

Let me introduce to you the contestants for this bout.  In the near corner, representing the Adult Thriller genre with 500 words, welcome to the ring Duckster.

The trees snapped in an out of focus in a dizzying rhythm. No matter how much she tried to focus on the bird whistling in the leaves, she was unable to see it. Its song was a soft and jubilant melody; nothing at all like the dirge a day like this deserved. Chaos swept around Maggie in a flurry of sirens, lights, and disconsolate cries a few feet away from her. Even as the EMT prodded her and shone lights into her eyes, the six-year-old only tried to find the cheerful bird hiding in the trees above their driveway.

“Maggie?” Ten voices overlapped in a symphony of layers that was almost beautiful. “Maggie, can you look at me?”She didn’t. Her eyes were still trying to make sense of the disembodied whistling in the trees.“Maggie, sweetheart, I need you to look at me. Can you look right here? Right at my nose?”

A flutter in the treetops ensnared her attention. Any moment, the bird would show himself. Maybe it was a bluebird. She loved watching bluebirds fly around their house after school. Alexandra hated the birds. She was always throwing rocks at them, or smashing their nests. One time, Maggie even caught her putting something from daddy’s garage into the bird feeders. Luckily, she told their dad in time for him to change the feed before the birds ate it. That was the night her sister slammed her fingers in their bedroom door.

A wailing cry erupted down the driveway, finally pulling the attention of both the EMT and Maggie to the source of the noise. She almost missed the sound of fluttering wings up above over the loud sobs of her mother and, when she looked to the tree once more, she just barely caught the bird flying away— a distant dot in the sky.

Leaving Maggie on the edge of the ambulance, the EMT rushed to aid his partner in prying the distraught woman from the approaching gurney. Her mom fought wildly to reach it again, her arms stretching out for the bundle on top of it, draped in a white sheet. A blossom of red spread in the center of it. The EMTs managed to keep her back long enough to load the stretcher into the second ambulance. She watched her mother carefully. Watched as the woman who was usually so happy fell apart in their front lawn. She hadn’t been able to summon a single tear but her mother, her beautiful mother, had spilled enough for the both of them.

While her father collected her mom, and the second ambulance pulled away from their home and past the crowd of bystanders held off by the police, the man who had been trying to get her to talk had come back. She stared up at his kind face — kind, but stretched thin with empathy for the parents’ plight — and twisted idly at her tiny fingers.

“Is Lexi dead?” she asked.

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And in the far corner, representing the Adult Chick Lit genre with 498 words, also welcome to the ring Arcadia.

For my fiftieth birthday, I got divorce papers and a colonoscopy. Not in that order.  Phil reasoned that after a pleasant slumber, I’d be more agreeable to him shacking up with a Zumba instructor and clearing out the bank accounts.  The process server called me ma’am. A year later, given the choice between a refreshing nap and Phil, I’d still choose the former.

Speaking of, that looks like him coming around the corner in the deli aisle.

Shit. I fish out my phone and text my daughter, Casey.

Dad is in grocery store! WHAT DO I DO?

She replies,  Um, say hi to the turd maybe?

Fat chance. I take stock of the situation. I’m wearing coffee-stained sweat pants and a T-shirt that introduces me as the “Menopause Avenger.” Casey made me the shirt as a post divorce gag gift.  The sweat pants I purchased with Bealls Bucks, bequeathed by my aunt when she went back north for the summer.  My ensemble reeks of attitude and old lady. And I have in-between hair, not quite long enough to cut into the style that my hairdresser claims will make me look like Kaley Cuoco’s  hotter, older sister.   

The lady cooking at the Apron Meals station thrusts a plastic cup filled with creamy penne pasta in front of me.  Brightly colored recipe cards for mushroom penne alfredo festoon the faux kitchen set up.

“Sample? It’s delicious and only takes fifteen minutes to make.”

She is plump, with rosy cheeks and blond poodle hair. The crinkles around her eyes suggest she’s smiled a lot.

“No… I, look, I need to hide under your cooktop,” I say. The please hangs in the air, unsaid and, as it turns out, unnecessary. She puts the cup down.

“Who’s bothering you, honey? I’ll call the manager,” she says, grabbing a rolling pin. It looks to be there just for show, since the entire meal comes out of a box, but Granny clutches it like she’s clobbered a few creeps in her day.

“Look, here’s the deal. My ex-husband is here and he can’t see me like this. I’m seven pounds away from fitting into my aspirational wardrobe and I have in-between hair.”

She nods. “Duck under here, sweetie. I’ll let you know when he’s gone.”

I abandon my cart and dive behind the table skirt seconds before Phil rounds the corner with Trixie. That’s what I call her, at least. I think her name is Trina. Or Tricia. Or maybe Marge.

Granny dangles a cup of  creamy goodness in front of the curtain split, but I swat it away.  My aspirational wardrobe is waiting, although rolling around naked in a tub of fettuccine alfredo would hit the spot right about now.

“Some dummy left her purse in her cart,” Trixie says as they walk toward the deli, where she will probably purchase overpriced organic chicken.

Then my custom ringtone goes off, Casey yelling, “Hey Mom! Pick up!”

Granny whispers, “I think they’re on to you.”

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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.  Read both pieces, choose the one you feel is superior, then say so in the comments below and provide a mini-critique for each.

Now go tell all of your friends to stop by and make a selection as well.  Tweet about it, and if you do please use the hashtag #WRiTECLUB2016. Tell everyone about WRiTE CLUB, where it’s not about the last man/woman standing, but who knocks the audience out!