WRiTE CLUB 2018 - Playoff Bout #2

There will soon be only six writers left and you know what that means? It's playoff time in WRiTE CLUB!

Our six writers will again enter the ring, this time against a new opponent, each brandishing a new 500 word writing samples. The bouts will be posted on Mon - Wed - Fri, with the voting remaining open as long as possible.  The voting for Playoff Round #1 closes at noon Monday,  May28th.

Here's a reminder of how everything works. Writing samples from two different writers, identified only by the craftily selected pen names of the respective submitters, are competing against one another today. 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 winner of each contest is chosen by you...the reader.  Simply read each entry and leave your vote in the comment section below.

It is customary to leave a brief critique for all the 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.

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!

What's at stake here? Other than bragging rights, the winner also wins free admission to the 2019 DFW Writers Conference.

Your voting has an added significance because not only will the three winners move onto to the next round, the submission that does not win their bout but tally's the most votes among the losers will move forward as a wildcard selection.

Ready to help an aspiring writer make their mark?  It's time to introduce our contestants and get this party started.


Please give a warm welcome back to MarlaWriter who is representing the YA Contemporary genre.

“Soph. You all right? Soph! Answer me.”

            Nothing.

            I swallow hard and turn to tell her dog, Nana, to get the meds, but she’s already on the way. I knock again. Sophie knows she’s not supposed to lock it. I run my fumbling fingers along the trim above the door feeling for the key. My shaky hand knocks it to the ground and the hallway is too dark to see a skinny gold rod in a tan carpet. I lunge for the light.

            Nana is back, med bag dropped at my feet. The whole time I’m calling out to Sophie, hoping she can hear me and not be too scared. I try to explain what I’m doing as calmly as I can, but I’m shaking so bad, it takes all my focus to put the key in the tiny hole.

            Damn her for locking the stupid door.

            I finally get the handle to turn. I want to swing the door open, but I don’t know where she’ll be and I can’t risk hurting her further. Nana paws at the carpet, whining. I open the door as fast as I dare. The dog whisks past me and takes her position lying across Sophie’s lap.

            I see her feet first. Her calves twist together, jerking like she’s trying to do backward crunches. She’s lying in a yellow puddle.

            Her right arm is drawn all the way up under her chin and her left is whacking the hell out of the shower door. Red streaks run from her knuckles down the glass and her wrist. Her head is twisted all the way to the right, and a thick pool of blood shimmies every time she jerks her head, hitting the toilet. White foam oozes from her mouth.

It’s not foam, I tell myself. It’s spit and it’s draining, so I know she won’t choke. And that’s good because there’s no way to turn her on her side without hurting her more.

            “Cait. Call 9-1-1. Now.” I pick up the old Toy Story lunch box we use for her emergency meds and fumble with the zipper. My hands are shaking so bad, I can’t get it open. I close my eyes and force a deep breath, steadying my nerves. Dropping the bag, I crawl to Sophie and clutch her hand. “I’m here, Soph.” I pull a towel off the hook and bunch it in between her head and the toilet.

            “Oh shit.” Cait is behind me, staring into the bathroom. I cover Sophie with another towel so she can’t be seen like this.

            “I need to call my mom.” My voice floats above me, disconnected.

            “I’ll do it.” Her voice is strong and steady, and that makes me look up. Cait is sliding her index finger up my phone over and over.

            “She’s under ICE, for emergencies. But they’re at a movie.”

            Sirens.

            “Got it.” She turns to open the door.

            “Be okay, Soph. Please.” I choke on the last word.
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Her opponent is none other than Wingsong, representing the Adult Steampunk genre.

‘Do not look at the workbench,’ I thought, shifting from foot to foot, my skirts rustling, bustle creaking. Everything sounded loud in my tiny shop.  ‘You managed to cover it in time. Everything is fine.’

“Please elaborate, Miss Engelthorpe.” The mechanical agent’s tinny voice interrupted my obsession.

 “Pardon?”

The Time Bureau badge bolted to its chest caught the gaslight.  “You stated that the tourists were from the future. Please elaborate, Miss Englethorpe.”

“Mrs.” I had a wife. Once. My fingers itched to touch the lock of her hair in my pendant. ‘The work is hidden. Do not look.’

The mechanical was designed to show neither impatience nor censure. “Please elaborate, Mrs. Engelthorpe.”

Tourists. Right. “They did not know a shilling from two-and-six. I could see them calculating the change. And they laughed at the telegraph box.”

I waved a hand over to the wall, where the box hung among the cuckoo clocks. It had only been installed last month, after the time tourists had increased to three a week. I had painted the dull cabinet a cheerful blue, but left the label, “Time Bureau Public Call Box,” alone. Future tourists always laughed at my telegraph box.

The mechanical’s human partner spoke up from behind me, “Did they buy anything in particular, Miss Engelthorpe?”

I turned. “They bought a watch, Agent Jones.”  The workbench was just in view. “And please, it is Mrs. Engelthorpe.”

‘One glance. Just to make sure.’ I forced my eyes to stay on the time agent.

Agent Jones was a tall man, with long, elegant fingers and quick eyes. His clothes did not suit the way he moved, bespoke wrapped in ready-to-wear. He walked along the back wall toward my workbench, looking at the freestanding grandfather clocks. They had been Jenny’s favorite to build, with the intricate clockwork and imagination required. He was almost at the bench.

‘Do not look.’ But my eyes were sliding away.

“Was their interest in the watches or the widowed watchmaker, madame?” Jones smiled engagingly, turning to rest right up against my workbench.

I froze. His hand rested a hair’s breadth away from the cover, fingers tapping on the cloth itself. Somehow I kept my eyes on his face. Please let him blame my nervousness on his smile, not his hand.

“I do not take your meaning, sir.”

“Madam, your wares are beautiful, but unremarkable. Your shop, while charming, lies not in London proper. And yet, the tourists flock here from the future. I theorize you, Madam, are the attraction.”

I had to check. Yet, even as my gaze shifted, Agent Jones whipped the cover away. A watch lay spread over the surface. Every piece had symbols etched in gold, tiny and perfect, the work of months. It was an exact match to the one carried by every time agent, the only way to travel in time. Everything I needed. I could not breathe.

Jones’s voice was deadly soft. “Ah. You do know that chronomachina are forbidden, do you not, Mrs. Engelthorpe?”

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Enjoying a pair of 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 if you haven't already done so.

Please 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 #WRiTECLUBDFW.

Remember, this is WRiTE CLUB, where it’s not about the last man/woman standing, but who knocks the audience out!