WRiTE CLUB 2018 – Bout #1

Welcome to the inaugural WRiTE CLUB 2018 bout. We’ve been building to this moment for five weeks and you know what’s exciting…that it was totally worth the wait! For those of you who might have just stumbled in, let me give you a run-down of what is going on here.

Weeks ago the submission window opened for this year's contest where we asked anybody wishing to participate to submit a 500-word writing sample – using a pen name. The sample can be from any genre, flash fiction or something from a larger piece of work, basically, anything goes except that it cannot have been previously published or posted on the internet. All of the rules regarding how to submit can be found here. After the submission period closed, we had fifteen judges (we call them our slush pile readers) read all 181 submissions from 132 writers and once all the ballots were total we narrowed the 181 down to the 30 that will be stepping into the ring over the course of the next three weeks. Today is the first of those bouts.

How this works – two anonymous (pen name only) writing samples step into the ring. Visitors to this blog (that’s you) read both entries and vote for the one that resonates the most with you. We ask that you leave a brief critique for both writers with your vote because that is one of the real values of this contest – FEEDBACK. Please be respectful with your remarks!

Even though there will be a different bout every day (M-F), the voting for each bout will remain open for seven days from the date it is posted to give as many people as possible to have a say. The voting for today’s bout will close on Sunday, April 22^nd (noon central time).

It’s that simple. The piece that garnishes the most votes moves on to the next round where they’ll face a different opponent. Using a tournament style format, the 30 contestants will be whittled down to just 2, and the winner of that final bout will be announced at the DFW Writers Conference in Hurst TX June 9-10. You can follow along with all of the bout results right HERE.

In case of a tie, I’m the deciding vote. I can do that because, like all of you, I do not know the real names of our contestants either (my wife processes all the submissions).

Oh yeah – for every bout that you vote in, your name (see rule #2 below) will be placed into a hat for a chance for a $40 Barnes & Noble Gift card that will be drawn after the contest concludes.

A few rules –

1) One vote per visitor per bout.

2) Although our contestants are anonymous, voters cannot be. Anonymous votes will not count, so if you do not have a Google account and are voting as a guest, be sure to include your name and email address.

3)Using any method (email, social media, text, etc) to solicit votes for a specific contestant will result in that contestant's immediate disqualification. It’s perfectly okay, in fact, it is encouraged to spread the word about the contest to get more people to vote, just not for a specific writer!

That’s enough jibber-jabber…like the man say’s –

In the far corner, we have Doctornoir representing the Crime Novel genre.

Raunch sat on the edge of the pool with one foot on the drowning man’s back and wondered if he had time for a cigarette. Turns out you really can drown someone in less than three feet of water­—if you knock him out first.

He thought it would be more difficult. Not the physical punch—he was as tough as they come, if he dared say so himself—but the emotional wallop. Despite an extensive criminal record for a variety of minor offenses, he’d never whacked anyone before, and he expected a rush of fear or horror or…something. Instead, he felt numb. The way he saw it, if the mob wanted this poor guy dead, he wasn’t a stellar citizen to begin with, and when you’re hungry and months behind on the rent, well, the truth is, money makes a great anesthetic.

The neighbor’s hound dog howled a warning. The scraggly brown hedge separating the two suburban houses rustled. The darkness obscured the source. Raunch tapped his cigarette back in the pack and pulled out his gun instead.

“Ow!” The hedge’s brittle branches snapped as a spandex-clad arm and leg broke through the six-foot tall barrier. The flailing continued until, with a final heave, a masked man hurtled onto the manicured lawn and rolled to a rest on his back.

“Jesus, Frank, you trying to wake up the whole neighborhood or what?” Raunch slipped the gun under his belt, covering it with the tail of his Phillies team jersey and removed his foot from the dead man’s back. He shook the water off his shoe. Dammit. He knew he should’ve worn boots. His sock was soaked. His sneaker squished when he walked toward Frank, ruining his attempt to look casual—and innocent. He leaned over Frank, who lay motionless with his eyes closed.

“Frank, buddy, you okay?”

Frank groaned and attempted to roll to his side, but his long cape snagged on a spindly branch, pinning him to the ground. He engaged in a brief tug of war, wrenching on the cape with both hands until the green fabric tore free. Exhausted from the effort and with his legs tangled in the tattered cape, he thrashed around like a bunny snared in a net until Raunch took pity on him and set him free.

“Dude, you’re embarrassing. Good thing there’s no one around to witness how pathetic you are.” 

Raunch grabbed Frank by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet.

Frank hunched over, gasping for breath. “I’m. Lambda. Man.” He lowered his voice, forcing Raunch to lean closer. “I told you not to use my real name when I’m on patrol.”

“Last I checked, ‘Lambda’ is your real name. Whatever. Are you okay, Lambda Man? Shrubbery appears to be your Kryptonite.”

Frank’s breathing slowed to normal. He straightened upright and gagged at the sight of the dead body bobbing in the shallow end of the pool. He was too late.

“My God, Raunch. What did you do?”
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And in the near corner, we have Groovy Girl representing the YA Upmarket Speculative genre.

My grandpa is a dick. I’m sorry about it, but he is.

Nana agrees with me, but she would say, “Keno, don’t be crude. Try another word.”

But she calls Grandpa a jackass – that’s her word for a dick. I haven’t called him a dick out loud. Someday I might, but for now I’m only crude in my head.

This week Grandpa’s problem is he thinks he owns the Mint, the house that used to be secret on Mint Lane. Nana filled it with food and tools and seed back before the sun zapped us with an electromagnetic pulse. This house saved our family and neighborhood. It helps us survive every day, now that the electricity, running water, cars, and phones are gone.

Grandpa’s been keeping neighbors out of the Mint, not letting them use tools to grow our food or get flour and yeast to bake everyone’s bread.

He’s got a damned shotgun and he means business.

He’s out there screaming at someone right now. Me and Uncle Eddie look at each other in the dining room at our house.

Uncle Eddie sighs. “Come on. We better go see what the hell he’s doing.”

I give my wife Alma a look, and she nods at me, rolling her eyes. I don’t know any other eighteen-year-old guys with a wife, but I’m sure glad I have Alma. She gets how I have to deal with Grandpa when he’s a dick. I want to kiss her, but Uncle Eddie is already halfway across the dead lawn toward the Mint house behind ours.

“I said get the fuck out of my yard!” Grandpa’s howling on the east side of the Mint, waving the muzzle of his shotgun at Silas Barnes. Silas is half-smiling, backing away with his hands up.

“It’s not your fucking yard, Dad!” Uncle Eddie yells as we slip through the hedge between our two backyards.

“Shut up, son. Get your pansy-ass out of here!”

“This pansy-ass is going to whip yours straight to hell if you don’t put down the god-damned gun!”

Uncle Eddie is all muscly like a wrestler. If he says he’s going to whip your ass, you better run. Grandpa never used to say anything about Uncle Eddie being gay, but I guess now that he’s so angry he’s letting out whatever shit he’s been holding inside for freaking ever.

“Dad!” Mom hollers out of a Mint upstairs window. “Cut it out. Put the gun down!”

He’s like a brat kid gone out of control, my grandpa, except he’s got a gun and he’s meaner.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” he growls.

While Grandpa’s glaring at Mom in the window, Uncle Eddie motions for me to sneak around behind the old fart.

“Don’t try to get the gun, just pin down his arms,” Eddie whispers behind his hand.

Just as Grandpa turns back toward Silas, me and Uncle Eddie jump him from different sides, leaning our bodies into his arms so he can’t move them.

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Leave your votes and critiques in the comments below. Again, be respectful of your remarks and try to point positives as well as detractions.

We’ll be back tomorrow with another bout.  See you then.