WRiTE CLUB 2019 - Playoff Bout #1

Reminder - Cage Bouts 3-6 are still taking your votes. Please make those your next stop if you've not voted there yet.

We are now (or soon will be) down to just six contestants and it's time to see how they match up with ALL NEW MATERIAL.

There will be three bouts this week (Mon-Wed-Fri) and pay special attention to when voting ends because a staggered timeline will be used again. Speaking of voting, it has a special significance during the playoffs because in addition to three winners advancing to the semi-finals, a fourth Wildcard winner will also be selected. How is the WC chosen? It will be the loser that had garnered the most votes among all three losers. So every vote counts - win or lose.

We do ask that you leave a brief critique for all of our contestants because that is one of the real values of this contest – FEEDBACK. Please be respectful with your remarks!

The voting for today’s bout will close on Sunday, June 9th (noon central time).

The piece that garnishes the most votes will move on to the semi-final round where they’ll face a different opponent with another NEW WRITING SAMPLE. 

As always, in case of a tie, I’m the deciding vote.

Here are the voting guidelines –

1) One vote per visitor per bout.

2) Anyone can vote (even the contestants themselves), but 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 more of a suggestion than a rule - cast your vote before you read other comments. Do not let yourself be swayed by the opinions of others.

Like the man say's

Please welcome back into the ring, with all new material - 

IshYouNotIsMe

“Look,” Jordan said around a mouthful of pumpkin ravioli. “It’s not that I don’t want to play Happy Family with you, but there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

I swallowed down half my Malbec before topping it off again. “It’s whatever, Jordi. I shouldn’t have even asked. Let’s just enjoy dinner, okay?”

“I want this so much, Neil.” He reached across the table and took my hand in his. “But you don’t know what you’re walking into.”

“What don’t I know? Are you secretly straight? Are you in some vitamin selling cult? Help me understand.” I rubbed small circles on Jordan’s always-cold hand and waited for him to say something.

“Remember that old cooking competition, Teflon Tantrums?” His voice wobbled and he squeezed his eyes tight.

“The one where kids cooked outrageous shit? What about it?”

“I was on it.” He grimaced and pushed his ravioli away.

I choked back a laugh with another swig of wine. “Bullshit. You can’t even cook.”

“Actually, I cooked well enough to win the show and a boatload of cash.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” I pulled my hand away and leaned back in my chair. “If it’s true, you’ve been lying about not knowing how to cook all along. What the hell?”

“Oh, God. Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad, I’m confused.”

Jordi took a deep breath and pressed his lips together. He seemed to shrink in front of me as the waiter cleared our half-eaten dinners.

“My mother was the Pageant Mom of cooking. By the time I was six, I could make a pie from scratch. My childhood sucked, and that fucking show was just the ganache on the cake.”

“Your mother taught you how to cook when you were little, and it ruined your life? I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t. Nobody does, that’s why I don’t talk about it. Can you imagine the pressure of cooking an entire holiday meal for fifteen when you’re only eleven? Or having to make your own three-tiered birthday cake? I would have given anything for her to just make me a boxed cake like a regular mother.” He spit words like venom. “And God help me if I didn’t show a hundred fancy skills. Sugar work, piping, mirror glaze.” Jordi blotted his eyes with his napkin and reigned himself in.

“After graduation, I ran far away, changed my name, and never looked back. But I can’t outrun her. I didn’t lie, Neil, I literally cannot cook. Cooking throws me right back into her kitchen where she still screams at me. Man up! Whip harder! Stop. Your. Crying!  When I cook, I still see lasagna dripping off the walls because the sauce was too garlicky.”

I slid into his booth and wrapped my arms around his shivering body. “Baby,” I kissed the top of his head. “As long as I’m around, you’ll never have to cook again. I adore you. Marry me.”

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Our second contestant is Sicaria

A single black curl bobs on the doll’s ancient porcelain head. One. Two. Three bobs. A shift in the air. The curtain flutters. Pale moonlight dances across the floor, reaching for me, wanting me.

I slip my hand under my pillow, searching for the small packet hidden there. I can’t find it. Keeping one eye on the doll, which is blissfully still at the moment, I lift my pillow with practiced steadiness. The pills are gone. Did Mom find them? Did she suspect I was doing drugs after I told her what was happening, convinced I was making it all up to get attention? Or did IT take them? Can it do that?

A picture frame wobbles on my dresser, almost falls, and then steadies as though an invisible hand caught it. Tears prick my eyes as I scan the floor for the pills. Addicted at fifteen—every girl’s dream. But I need to sleep. It’s been weeks since this started. Or maybe days. I’m losing count.

A faded stuffed bear topples off a pile of childish junk destined for Goodwill. I swallow a cry as it crawls back to the top like a spider claiming its web. Gripping my comforter, I pull it to my chin, shaking beneath its thick warmth. “I’m not making this up.” I choke on the words.

And then it comes. The soft, singsong voice that worms its way into my bones and is getting harder and harder to resist.

Come with me, it whispers. I shake my head.

Come with me. More insistent this time.

A whimper escapes my lips. “No.”

A feather-light touch on my hand, icy, compelling. Please.

It’s never said please before.

Come and play. Loneliness and hope flit around the words. I should play with it. Keep it company. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, toes brushing against the thick patterned rug.

Come and play. Laughter skips through the room, bright and tinkling.

I stand, the rug now freshly mown grass beneath my feet, the sweet smell of spring filling the air. Velvet wisps of fog curl around me, beckoning, glowing in the light which now filters through my second-story window, chasing away the night.

I grasp the small, translucent hand reaching toward me and take a step.

“Maddie?”

Misty haze swirls around me like a cozy blanket, enveloping me, smothering me.

“Maddie! What are you doing!” Mom’s voice is muffled, distant.

Shadows creep around the window frame, stealing the light, stealing me.

Play with me.

“Maddie!”

“No,” I whisper, reaching back, back toward safety, back toward Mom.

Now!  I dig my feet into the ground, one hand pulled toward the fading light still seeping through the window, the other flailing as I struggle to find something, anything to grab. My fingers graze Mom’s. One last desperate yank. The light vanishes, and I lie huddled in Mom’s lap.

A threat, a promise, rings in my ear. Tomorrow.

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Please 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 on Wednesday with our second playoff bout. 

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!