WRiTE CLUB 2016 - Bout #7

Our next winner has been posted on the WRiTE CLUB Scorecard and it will continue to be updated as we move through the week. Let me remind everyone that voting for each bout remains live for one week. That way there's always time to catch up on bouts you may have missed.

As we continue through the second week of matches, the challenge becomes how do we keep interests high so people will continue coming back? For those of you who've been Tweeting (#WRiTECLUB2016) and/or updating Facebook - THANK YOU - but we need to step up our game.  We've started seeing a drop-off in visitors and votes, and I need help combating the slide. After six years of doing this I think I've finally figured out why this happens. VOTING IS HARD! Choosing between two quality writers is not easy, and after people do it a couple of times some readers stop coming back because they don't want to face a difficult choice. So why do I make you do it? Because in the end, the struggle...and the competition, makes us all better at our craft. At the end of it all maybe some aspiring writers will get the exposure they need.

Here's a reminder of how things work. This is the 2nd of three weeks of daily bouts (M-F) between writing samples that are identified only by the craftily selected pen names of the respective submitters. Once we get through the 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. At stake is a chance to win free admission to the 2017 DFW Writers Conference.

The voting for this bout - Bout #7 - remains open until noon on Monday - March 21st.

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 YA Hsitorical genre with 500 words, welcome to the ring Eva.





“Take this corner,” Bahadur balanced a fraying blanket in one hand while gripping hammer and nails in the other. “Quickly, hold tight Mariam jan. The daylight for maghrib prayer is fading fast.”

“I’m trying.” Mariam scrambled to his side. On tiptoes, arms outstretched, she pressed the blanket to the window in their tiny living room. Three taps and the blanket was secured. A flicker of movement caused Mariam to clasp her hands together and squeal.

“Oh, look!”

She lifted a corner of blanket and pointed to a dragonfly.

Bahadur clicked his tongue and tugged her from the window. Being exposed to the outside made him nervous. “How many times do I have to—”

Mariam twisted from his grip. “Remember what Baba jan said, about the dragonflies?” She hopped up and down. “Remember, brother. You have to. Remember what they are?” Mariam darted to the window, mesmerized by the bug.

“The souls of the dead,” Bahadur muttered. Old Uzbek lore—a childish tale fifteen-year-old Bahadur no longer believed. He opened his mouth to shame his sister for entertaining nonsense, but the words faded the moment her bright grey eyes turned to meet his.

“Who do you think it is this time?”

Her question seeped into the quiet spaces of their home, igniting memories Bahadur promised to bury.

“Mammy?”

Mariam’s breath fogged the glass; she waited for an answer. Bahadur swallowed the bitterness of longing, shrugged away the tightness of loss in his chest.

“We both know where Mammy is, Mariam jan. Now please. Come say your prayers.”

Mariam’s shoulders slumped as she drew away from their makeshift curtain. Regret drowned Bahadur’s heart, but he knew it was best to banish these fantastical thoughts—make her reality easier to bear.

The consequences of performing their daily prayers were tremendous. One utterance of an Allahu akbar, God is great, and Bahadur’s fate was sealed. In 1934, no one in the town of Samarkand was safe from the Communists. Not him, not Mariam—even Baba knelt at the mercy of the Soviets.

He watched Mariam grasp for her worn white hijab—the last present she received from her mother. Bahadur remembered the grin on Mammy’s face, the excitement of laying the headscarf lightly on Mariam’s shoulders, kissing her forehead. The stray bullet that hummed its song through the yard. Mariam’s scream had pierced the air as Bahadur rushed to his mother’s side, blood pooling beneath his fingers.

“Never leave her,” she had begged.

“I-I didn’t see it. Mammy, please. Baba will come.” He had shouted at Mariam to fetch their father before clinging to his mother’s chest, listening for the steady whoosh of life passing through her lips.

“Promise,” she had rasped.

“I promise, I swear.”

Bahadur had waited for the whoosh to come next, but it never did.

Later that night, after completing their prayers, Bahadur settled on the ground next to Mariam and watched her sleep. He counted the rise and fall of her small chest, listened for the steady whoosh. ___________________________________________________________________________________

And in the far corner, representing the Adult Near-Future Thriller genre with 478 words, also welcome to the ring Corvus Corax.




Drive full.

The message flashes in my brain. I grab the cable jacked into the base of my skull with sweat slicked fingers and scan the list of documents.

Shit. The Proxy software isn’t downloaded. I rearrange the files and send mental instructions to override the wetware-brain barrier. It will overwrite some personal memories, but I need that software.

My past is best forgotten anyhow.

“It's time, Ethan.” Meridian takes her eyes off the view of Central Park and rises from my couch, dark face crinkling with anticipation. “Got everything?”

“Not quite. Proxy ‘ware’s incomplete.”

“You didn’t download it first?” Meridian scowls at me. "I thought you were supposed to be smart."

“Just a few seconds.” I flick a nervous smile at her. "You can give me that much more of this life."

Meridian takes in my penthouse apartment. "You got it good here, but you'll adapt." Her face twitches. She's a surprisingly bad liar for a double agent betraying one of the most secretive and powerful companies in America.

"I'm tougher than I look." I puff out what little there is of my chest. "What's it like… being poor?"

"For starters, don't say shit like that or you'll get a punch in the—"

Loud popping noises from the hall outside cut her off mid-sentence.

“Time to go.” Meridian draws a pistol from inside her jacket and chambers a round.

"You're going to kill them?"

"No, I'm going to ask nicely if they'll please let me take the one person who can destroy their operation and waltz right out of here… maybe tango, I never was good at waltzing. You think this is a fucking game?"

I shake my head. “Almost there.” I hold the plug with quivering fingers, ready to yank it out the moment the download’s done. “I hijacked the Proxy system while I was in there.”

“Good for you.” Her body tenses. “Get ready.”

More popping noises from the hallway. Someone shouts instructions.

“You don’t get it…. Next time they hack somebody I’m going hitch a ride on their signal.” The download timer reads forty seconds.

My apartment door flies open and three men from my security detail burst through. “Ma’am, we’ve got a situation,” The leader addresses Meridian.

“Cover the door.” Meridian points her pistol at my head. “If they get past you, I’ll kill him myself.”

The man nods and the three guards kneel inside the doorway, guns at the ready.

Meridian turns her pistol on the lead guard’s head.

My stomach heaves in anticipation, but I can’t look away. I’ve never seen anyone die before.

Meridian pulls the trigger and the man’s head explodes spraying grey matter and blood across the ivory white wall and a corner of the Jackson Pollack my designer hung there. The wall will never be the same, but the gore blends right in on the Pollack.

___________________________________________________________________________________


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!