WRiTE CLUB 2018 - Bout #14

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.

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 Wednesday, May 9th (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 M.M. Fritz representing the YA Dystopian genre.

The alarms scream, mirroring the dream they interrupted. I groan, rolling over and burrowing further under the worn blanket. Another drill. Haven’t we gotten this down by now? This would be the third in a month. The protocols are in place, everyone at their position in two minutes flat.

Reluctantly, I peek through one sleep-coated eye. Small, cave-like, and ever lit by the red light required in all of our rooms in case of “emergencies” like this, it was more dungeon than bedroom. My uniform is hanging on the wall hook, ready for me to slide into it the moment my feet hit the ground. We sleep in the standard-issue undergarments. To save time.

They will be waiting for me in the hall by now. It is my responsibility to give the command to move into position. I’ve done it perfectly every time before, leaping out of bed at almost the same moment the alarms begin. I’m always the first one in the hall, standing at attention, still as a statue, a slightly annoyed expression on my face at the delay in my team. But today I am tired. The constant training, constant vigilance is wearing on me, and for a fleeting moment I imagine what I would be doing right now if the whole world hadn’t gone to shit.

Sleeping. I would be sleeping. My watch tells me it’s not even 5 a.m. yet. There was no chance you would have seen me up before the sun in my previous life. If it were my choice, I would sleep until at least eight, lazy in bed and read or just mess around on my phone until the hunger got to me. I’d put off writing lesson plans or grading the stack of essays that took up most of my nightstand and dream of being a full-time writer in a small cottage in the Scottish highlands.

But nothing was my choice anymore. I’d given up such a luxury when I’d made my last choice.

The floor is like ice, as it is every morning in this underground bunker. I allow myself one moment to stretch. We are going to fail this drill, and it will be my fault. A tiny pang of guilt clutches my heart then lets go, receding into the exhaustion that prevents me from caring. I even consider crawling back into bed. But I’m up now, so I pull on the stiff uniform and breathe through my mouth as the odorous cloth passes over my face. The chemicals glazing the surface may save me from some of the worst deaths imaginable, but in the meantime I smell like a radioactive skunk.

My helmet is just sliding onto my head when the alarms stop.

I freeze.

Something is wrong.
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And in the near corner, we have MarlaWriter representing the YA Contemporary genre.

Fifteen minutes until my car backs out of the driveway for zero period band practice, and my sister’s door is still closed. I pull a baseball cap over the brown mess I didn’t bother smoothing into a socially acceptable mold of hair gel and guy-style. Grabbing my trumpet and backpack, all I can think about is Mr. Slater giving away my first chair position for being late. He threatened as much last time.

I glance at my watch and lean closer to the wall separating my room from my sister’s. No sounds of zipping backpacks or the off-key humming she likes to do when she’s getting ready. No meds-induced heavy breathing either. Even her service dog is silent.

Sophie sleeps hard. It’s a miracle she wakes up at all after swallowing the mounds of pills she takes every day.

The outdated pictures in the hallway rattle when I close my door harder than I need to. I hardly recognize the cookie-cutter family posing with coordinated smiles and matching Christmas vests like none of them have a care in the world.

I stare at Sophie’s door handle and wonder how many fingerprints smudge its shiny surface. How many times I watched Mom’s hand hover over it, worry lines hidden beneath her smile. I roll my eyes and huff because she’s probably hunkered down under a mound of blankets next to a stretched out yellow lab. But as much as I try to shake the weight off my shoulders, I wonder if this will be the day Sophie doesn’t wake up. I steel my knees in case it is.

I think about What If? I’d be an only child. Again. Both my parents could be at the same performance on the same night listening to me playing a solo I’d earned in jazz band. I search the picture with just me and my parents taken before Sophie was even born. Before the world changed color. The kid sitting in between his parents smiling too big has no clue.

If something were wrong, Nana would’ve alerted. She’s trained to get someone and then lay with Sophie until she stops shaking.  My heart beats one of those thumps where it feels like two at the same time, so I take a deep breath. If Nana needed help, she’d be whining. Probably hasn’t even been taken out yet.

I reach for the handle but then dig my phone from my pocket instead.

I’m leaving in five. And if you want

a ride to school, you better hurry.

Hopefully she reads it. Hopefully she can.

Schrodinger’s sister.

I smirk at my joke but immediately curse myself for being cavalier. Not supposed to make jokes. Rule number 372 when you live with a chronically ill sibling. At least my physics teacher would be proud.

Familiar morning sounds of Mom rustling lunch bags come from the kitchen, and the smell of coffee beckons me to follow. With one last glance, I curse the shiny handle.

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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.