WRiTE CLUB 2018 - Bout #15

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.

This is the final first-round bout of WRiTE CLUB. Congratulations to each of the thirty contestants who were given the opportunity to step into the ring, and for those of you who submitted but didn't get the chance to compete - please give it a try next year. The voting was SO CLOSE amongst the slushpile readers that you could have been just one vote away. For those of you who might be disappointed about not being selected this year, PLEASE continue to come by and read/vote for your fellow submitters. They really need your support/input - plus you can still win a prize.

Also - if your favorite piece of writing didn't win their bout, make sure you return for SAVE WEEK!

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 Thursday, May 10th (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 Emese Silver representing the Paranormal genre.

I should have felt safe. My pistol was within reach and ready to fire, but I couldn’t shake my apprehension. They would find me, and soon.

“Snap out of it, Cara. You’re being paranoid,” I whispered.  “No one’s getting in here unless you allow it.” I looked at the stack of bullet-ridden targets on my desk. Dad would be proud of each shot. Straight through the bull’s-eye, no matter their position on the paper. With McCloud’s 500-pound bark as an alarm and my aim, intruders would not be problematic for long.

I inhaled deeply and rose from the recliner. McCloud scrambled to his feet. He pointed his nose at the door. Though he was gentle and good-natured, I could count on him to tear any threat to shreds.

No growl came. His interest in the door had resulted from my sudden movement. I relaxed.

“It’s okay, McCloud. Just going to wash dishes.”

The mountain of white fur settled onto the floor. A moan escaped as he stretched out beside the chair. I headed to the kitchen, half-expecting him to follow, but he had little incentive. Dinnertime, and we’d be racing.

My shoulders sank at the dishes peaking out of the sink. I stared at the mess and considered letting him lick the plates clean. Gross.

McCloud moseyed in at the sound of a spoon clinking against a plate. The food fell into the sink, and his eyes said it all. Traitor.

I gave him a pat then dropped a partially eaten rib into his dish. As I wiped spicy barbecue sauce from my fingers, he snatched the bone and I had second thoughts. The treat would inevitably elicit regrets with a 2:00 AM-scratch at the door — not that waking from a dead sleep strayed from my recent routine. At least his intestinal distress wouldn’t involve the usual kicking and screaming I endured each night. I pushed the memories out of my head and carried on with my cleaning while McCloud pawed at the rib.

As I rearranged pots in the cupboard to make room for the one atop the counter, the temperature plummeted. Someone—or something—was watching me, and it meant me no good.  A puff of frigid air prickled the back of my neck. The pot clanged onto the floor, and I whipped around. In a single action, McCloud released the bone, sprang to his feet, pointed to the space between the refrigerator and table, and snarled his warning.

“I know you’re there.” My arms folded in front of me as though they could prevent my heart from jumping out of my chest. I took a calming breath and regained my composure. “Reveal yourself or leave.”

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And in the near corner, we have Charlie St. James representing the Women's Fiction genre.

The cake was surprisingly heavy. The first thought through my mind wasn't that I was launching a chocolate cake at my ex's car. It was that my mother would cringe I wasn't using the proper utensils. I had reached into the box, fingers wide, and grabbed a lump the size of my broken heart. 

"Just throw it!" Cyn yelled. 

The other girls giggled from the back of the car.

Confectionary sabotage hadn't started out as the goal for the evening. Instead it had been to bake a cake from scratch and eat it all with the girls from the Ex’s Bake Club. In one sitting. Because I was an adult and raging against the destruction of my perceived existence on this planet. As were all the other lovely ladies who were currently cheering me on like a demented pep squad.

But like with all other things Cyn got involved with, the night hadn't gone as first planned, and now, I was trespassing at my old apartment complex with an artillery of baked goods.

Fuck you, Greg Haddock.

For ruining the life I had planned since I was fourteen. For leaving me homeless and directionless. For setting me adrift in a sea of singleness, rage, and calorie guilt.

I threw the wad of chocolate cake as hard as I could against the back window of his Honda. The Honda I'd put the down payment on, but he insisted be in his name to build credit. The Honda I'd driven across the country from Stanford to Northwestern while he flew business class on his parent’s dime because he couldn’t be exhausted for orientation. The four-door we'd picked out thinking about our future children. 

I went back for a second helping and sunk my fingers into the still warm cake. The cake I'd baked to prove he was wrong. I could bake. I could have a job and keep a household running with freshly baked goods. And no tiny prick was going to tell me I couldn't. The round of chocolate fury skidded across the top of the car and rolled slowly down the front window like a muddy snowball, leaving fudge in its wake. 

Araceli jumped out of the car and dug her fingers in too. She launched the handful at the driver’s side window. "That's for dumping my friend, cabron."

I threw my head back and cackled.

Bridget walked up beside me and took a handful of cake. “This is for leaving her without a place to sleep.” She tossed it like a delicate snowball, and it made an amazing splat against the passenger window and slid down in gooey perfection.

And for the first time in a very long time, I took a deep calm breath.

Apparently, a little chocolate cake could ease a broken heart. That and friends. But mostly chocolate.

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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.

Next week is SAVE WEEK.