WRiTE CLUB 2019 - Preliminaries - Round #3

Before we get started, I wanted to address the issue a few readers are having with not being able to post comments, or having those comments show up as UNKNOWN even though they have a Google Account.  There are several things at play here. First, if you are using the Safari Browser it has a known problem with Blogger and you have two choices. Switch to Firefox as a browser (I've never had a problem using it), or change the setting on Safari as illustrated below.

The other problem is Blogger not recognizing you when adding a comment and therefore designating you as UNKNOWN. This could happen if the reader is a Blogger user themselves and they have not changed their settings since Google + went away.  To do this follow these steps:

Go to Blogger dashboard.
SETTINGS
USER SETTINGS
Set User Profile = Blogger (instead of Google +)
Save
Hopefully, that will resolve everyone's issues and let the votes/comments reach our contestants. If you missed the first two bouts because of one of these issues, remember the bouts remain LIVE for a week so you can still go back and let your choice be known.

Now that we have that taken care, it's back to business. WRiTE CLUB (sponsored by the DFW Conference) is tournament-style contest that runs during the eight weeks prior to the conference and it provides writers the opportunity to compete against one another for a chance to win free admission to next year’s conference (along with other prizes). Here’s the kicker—it’s all done anonymously. Writers have submitted 500-word writing samples under pen names. The chosen (pre-decided by a group of twenty slush pile readers) are paired off to go head-to-head in daily “bouts”, with the winner of each match determined by you the reader—by voting for your favorites. Bout winners keep advancing until there are only two remaining and that’s when a panel of celebrity judges, who include well know authors, agents, editors, and other publishing folks, choose the ultimate champion.

Even though the contest is sponsored by DFW, anyone can vote (as long as you have a Google sign-in or verifiable email address), and when you do, we encourage you to leave a mini-critique for both writers. Oh, I forgot to mention that the voters can win a $60 Barnes and Noble prize. Each time you vote in a bout your name will be placed into a hat and at the end of the contest, one name will be selected to receive the prize.

How this works—two anonymous (pen name only) writing samples are waiting in the ring below. Visitors to this blog (that’s you) should read both entries and then vote by leaving a comment for the one that resonates with you the most. We also 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 I post it to give as many people as possible to have a say. Voting for today’s bout will close on Tuesday, May 7th (noon central time). To help keep up with which bouts are open, you can follow along on the WRiTE CLUB Scoreboard updated right HERE.

It’s that simple. The writing piece that garnishes the most votes will move on to the next round where they’ll face a different opponent. 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).

A few more 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 cause 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!
4) Although not really a rule, it is suggested that you cast your own vote BEFORE you read the comments by other voters. Don't let yourself be swayed by other opinions.

That’s enough of the fine print…like the man says –

On one side of the ring stands Griff N. Dorr representing the Sci-Fi genre.

In the confusion of last night's escape, Mida hadn't really gotten a good look at the house, but eventually she found the stairs and headed down them. Faint sounds drew her around the corner to a narrow, cluttered kitchen.

Inside was an old man with wispy hair dyed in half a dozen colors. He lifted a ladle with a hand made of metal and wires, and stirred what smelled like some kind of bean soup. Mida's stomach growled.

The noise must have given her away, because the old man addressed her without looking up. "If you're going to sleep through breakfast, don't complain that you're hungry before lunch."

Mida tried not to look at the myriad fruits and vegetables piled on the counter. She was a stranger here; she had no right to ask for anything.

"I'm fine," she lied. "Is that woman ... er, Cipher here somewhere?"

"She'll be back." The old man finally turned, appraising her. He must have seen someone worth taking pity on, because he grabbed a green and red fruit and tossed it to her. "So you're the new kid. Mida, right? They call me Bitz. Don't bother asking why."

Mida bit the unfamiliar fruit, only to spit it out in disgust a moment latter. It tasted like pepper.

Bitz chuckled and handed her a paring knife. "Never had a mango before?"

"How does everybody know who I am?" Mida wondered, slicing open the mango. The fruit inside was orange, sticky, and much tastier than the peel.

Bitz shook his head. "A name, a face; that's not knowing someone. You want to know who a person is, you've got to see them at their worst. They gonna run, or fight? They gonna stand for something, or they all about what's in it for them?"

She wanted to ask Bitz which kind of person he was, but she had several far more urgent questions. For example, "Why did you let us in?"

There was no reason for Bitz to know the answer; he hadn't been there when Mida pounded on the strangely marked door last night. But Cipher must have filled him in.

"You mean what does Aegis want with you? Beats the heck outta me. I keep telling Cipher, one day her imaginary friend is gonna get someone killed."

Mida suppressed a sigh. "So you haven't met him either."

"No one's met Aegis. He, she, it, they—all speculation. Save me the pit," he added. "I'm growing them on the roof."

It occurred to Mida that Bitz was a lot like the mango in her hand. Bitter on the outside, but much more pleasant when you got past the surface.

She leaned forward. "So, why do they call you Bitz?"

The old man loomed suddenly, clacking the fingers of his prosthetic hand beneath her nose. With that crazy hair, he reminded her of a mad scientist. 

"Because," he said ominously, a twinkle in his eye, "that's all they ever found of my arm."

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On the far side of the ring we have  Galadhon who is representing the Ghost Story genre.

The ghost appeared in the doorway.

I saw her from my cot, and thought it was Alice, in a Victorian dress of her grandmother’s, or some such fool thing. But Alice is no fool, and she has no business in Vimy field hospital anyway.

Five other cots in this tent, all occupied. But this was in the still, cold hour before dawn, and the other men slept, wounds buried beneath prickly wool. I’d also been asleep, and dreaming of Alice, on an icy winter morning at the skating rink in Westmount Park. I was showing off, recreating some of my best weaves and dodges from last season’s hockey matches, and in my cot I tried to turn, and the searing pain in my leg jolted me awake.

I was afraid I’d cried out, and kept motionless, as if evading a sniper, until I’d worked out the snores from the other beds and could be certain that, even if I had overreacted, no one had heard me.

There were no sounds from beyond the tent except the distant thud of gunfire. The guns are always there. You breathe, your blood flows; and you breathe in the stench of the dead and your blood throbs with the rattle of the machine guns. Until a shot stops your blood, and your body becomes the stink in another man’s nostrils.

The pain was no less. I grunted, shifted my hips, rolled my shoulders. Did everything I could, short of wrenching my leg out of traction and clawing the dressings off with my ragged nails.

I opened my eyes, and that’s when I saw the ghost.

She was whiter than the grimy tent walls. The door flap was ajar, and she was poised with the darkness behind her and the flicker of our single lantern sending gold threads along the front of her high-collared dress. Yet neither black nor gold disturbed her essential paleness, which made of dress and skin one form. Like a figure carved from meerschaum, she was. Her arms hung low and she clasped her hands under her belly. Her limbs might have been embroidery on the dress, and its long skirts might have as easily been part of the shape of her legs.

All this I grasped in one swift instant, as my artist’s mind sought ways to make real and plausible what must otherwise be an impossible, fiendish spectre.

She looked me in the eye, and though hers were black pits open onto nothing, still I thought I saw a gleam there, as of an inferno in a corner of Hell, and I swept up my glass and flung the last of my water at her.

But she was two cot-lengths away, and even if a drop had reached her, she would not melt like meerschaum. The thought that the water might pass through her, provide physical proof that she was indeed a spectre, made me cry out again. One squawk, before I clamped my teeth into my lower lip.

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

We’ll be back tomorrow with bout #4. Please help all our writers out by telling everyone you know what is happening here and encourage them to come vote.

This is WRiTE CLUB—the contest where the audience gets clobbered!