WRiTE CLUB 2018 - Bout #12

Reminder - You can follow along with all of the bout results right HERE, and remember, the bouts stay open for one week and some of the first weeks are still live.

Today we bring you bout #12 of WRiTE CLUB. Best of luck to both writers.

Here's a refresher of what's going on, in case you forgot how things work 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 Monday, May 7th (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. 

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 and 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 Cha-REL representing the Women's Fiction genre.

I’m not even wearing a bra. I’m fifteen minutes late, I haven’t washed my hair since God knows when, these “yoga pants” are my pajamas—yup, I slept in them—I have coffee-flavored morning breath, and I’m not even wearing a bra.

To be expected, there are no spots in the school parking lot, so I have to park across the street and sprint, which means I’ll be sweaty on top of everything else—damned 90-degree August mornings—and of course there’s Kristin Barlow.

“He-ey, Kaa-aate!” she calls in a voice that is like saccharine if it had a sound, waving at me as her long, lithe legs carry her across the parking lot and into her silver Model S. The first time I saw her, I was positive Kristin was a former runway model or something, but I was wrong. No, she’s a graduate of Yale Law who provides pro-bono legal counsel for underprivileged, inner-city families. Her husband owns a large venture capital firm so she’s able give back to the community in addition to being a perfect mom, a trophy wife, and the head of the PTA. She’s also never late to parent-teacher conferences.

“He-ey, Krii-stiin!” I warble, waving and then smacking my knuckles against the glass as I miss the door handle, and if I were more like Kristin my husband would probably still be around.

There’s a dad sitting on the bench in the school lobby and I cross my arms over my chest because my t-shirt-clad nipples don’t understand it’s not polite to point. He’s not Kristin’s husband, but I would bet my morning coffee his wife is a sun-kissed, blonde-balayage counterpart to mocha-haired-cover-girl-look-alike Kristin. I bet his wife teaches Pilates. Or hot yoga. Or a barre class. Or all of the above. He’s overtly handsome and his well-fitting gym clothes showcase the fact that he’s in better shape than the average late-thirty-something male, and I bet he just came from a spin class taught by his perfect wife. I sit as far at the other end of the bench as possible without letting one of my never-even-seen-a-Pilates-studio ass cheeks hang off the edge.

“Kate,” comes the voice of Lindsay, the receptionist-slash-office-manager, who is neither saccharin nor sugar, rather she’s more like cilantro because people either love her or hate her. “Ms. Lawson is still in another conference. It’s okay.”

“Oh, she is?” I ask, trying and failing to suppress my huffing and puffing.

Lindsay gives me a brisk and amused nod as she disappears into the door behind her desk. She reemerges a moment later carrying a styrofoam cup and holds it in front of my face.

“Everything’s fine,” she says, and I love cilantro. Cilantro gets me and knows without me telling her that I only had one cup of coffee this morning because I can’t keep track of time to save my life.

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And in the near corner, we have MujerConHistorias representing the Short Story Grief-Inspirational genre.

With her head on the sofa’s armrest, her eyes follow the roach. That movement, a wobbly taka-taka as the roach busily makes its way across the hardwood floor, is what made her eyes focus. She can’t recall the last time she ate but the image of her picking out that floor three years ago when they moved in is as vivid as the roach’s shiny black back. Her husband had loved the floor. She’d hated how every speck of dust showed like a star on dark sky. The roach, usually undetectable on the espresso floor, leaves a trail on the dust with its airy taka-taka.

She sits up inch by inch, her side bursting into shooting pains. A head-shaped depression remains on the cushion, the fabric retains the outline of where her body was laying. She lifts her shirt and traces the sores on the side of her body with her fingertips. She’d found them last week. This she remembers. She lets the shirt fall down.

Her ear is about to touch the armrest again when she hears the cry outside. Soft. Timid. It persists until she drops her legs over the edge and stands. Her living room spins, her nails dig into the armrest.

The cries get closer. She shuffles like an elder from couch to patio door and slides the glass door open. An orange fluff ball meows again. It parades up and down the concrete porch, rubbing against patio furniture and planters with shriveled plants. Probably hungry. Her head turns toward the kitchen, an image of her mother-in-law with grocery bags flashes.

They used to have a cat the first year of their marriage. It was really his mom’s, Sandra’s cat. He returned it, eventually.

Sandra, the only one who rang her number long after she’d stopped picking up. Sandra gave up like the rest, months ago.

The feline, waiting for her to get distracted, speeds past her legs and bounds inside. Like on a mission it runs straight to the roach and licks it lips after swallowing it. She follows the cat down the hallway she’s seen hundreds of times, but not in this dimension. It’s curled up already, of all places, on the bed that hasn’t been slept on for a year, on top of her husband’s pillow.

“Hey.” Every cell of her body must’ve quivered, her own tongue not recognizing the taste of her voice.

In the shower, she gags at the fumes that rise off of her. She hits her heel, feeling for the ledge while stepping in reverse, not once letting her eyes meet the mirror. Afterward, she lathers aloe all along her sides.

She switches the TV on, the last thing they were watching resumes—last year’s Olympic games—right before he left for milk and was rammed by a semi at the corner.

It hurts to exhale. “I’ll tell you all about ‘em the day I see you, hon.”

She hits pause and picks up the phone to dial Sandra.

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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.