WRiTE CLUB 2021 - Preliminary Bout #14

Just four more contestants to reveal in these last two preliminary bouts. Who will make it into the ring?

Here's a reminder of what is happening. WRiTE CLUB (sponsored by Wild Lark Books) is a tournament-style contest that will run for nine weeks (which includes a week break for the holidays). It provides writers the opportunity to compete against one another for a chance to win a free publication package (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 (decided by a group of twelve 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.

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, the voters can win a $50 Wild Lark Books gift card. 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 Wed, Jan 5th (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. What is okay, in fact, encouraged, is to spread the word about the contest to get more people to vote, just not for a specific writer!

That’s enough of the fine print…here we go!

On one side of the ring stands MIM representing the Short Story genre.

Driving Me Crazy

“Get off in Sandnes,” she says. 

The website for the Statens Vegvesen, the Norwegian DPS, calls her a “test sensor.” I call her—this khaki-uniformed woman who holds my vehicular fate in her hands—the Ice Queen. Queenie, for short.

The ten minutes since I pulled out of the Stavanger motor vehicle bureau have been chilly, and nothing’s wrong with the sedan’s heat. Yep, it’s Queenie. You know the type—pruny face, glacial eyes, and Grinchy heart. 

I have fifty more minutes to melt Queenie with my red-hot driving skills and snag that Norwegian driver’s license. If I don’t--well, let’s not think about that.

I am piloting Queenie smoothly, steadily, and moderately southeast on the motorway when she tells me to exit in Sandnes. Seems to me Sandnes has four exits. Queenie’s going to have to cough up more info. “Which Sandnes exit? This one?” I say, gesturing toward the blue highway sign approaching us. 

Then I reconsider. Waving one hand around during a driving test—could look reckless. I slide it back to the two o’clock position and act casual.

“Do you mean the Sandnes sentrum exit?” I ask. 

“Ja,” she says, scribbling on her clipboard. 

Not that rabbit warren. Crap! 

Downtown Sandnes is the cutest for shopping, strolling on the brick-paved pedestrian mall lined with boutiques. For driving, though, its criss-crossing streets are nothing but a tangled mass of potential accidents. Cyclists and baby strollers and walkers and parallel parkers and a bunch of fun-sized roundabouts—you follow me, don’t you?

All the ex-pats here have PTSD from the Sandnes-hell test portion. “I was clenching the steering wheel and going about 10 miles an hour,” said Debbie, the runner from Colorado. (Does she mean 10 kilometers an hour? I never can tell.)

Jana told me, “I was trying to turn left, but I couldn’t get the green arrow. My shirt was sticking to my back—sweat just streaming down, you know? And the test guy kept trying to talk to me.” She’s from Houston, like me.  She failed the test, like I’m about to. 

Since my family and I moved to Norway in May, I’ve been coping with culture shock. It comes in trickles sometimes, storm surges other times. When I’m on the Stavanger roads and behind the wheel, it’s like I’m up to my neck in the deep, dark fjord.  

“Turn at the next right,” says Queenie.

“By the apotek?” I ask. 

She brushes something (probably fake) off her coat sleeve and exhales. “Is that the next right?”

Honestly, I don’t know. As I’ve learned recently, the “next right” could be the drugstore. Also, it could be a dead-end alley barely wider than a Gremlin. Reversing in such a situation really gets your heart pumping. 

In any case, I turn right. 

“Drive up the hill,” says Queenie. “Continue straight on at the intersection.”

I approach. I decelerate. Looks like I’ve reached the end of my ride. 

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On the far side of the ring, we have Storyweaver who represents the Fantasy genre.

The dark stone was a canvas, calling to Harriett as she ran her fingers over the textured surface.  She closed her eyes, letting her consciousness drift into the blocks, sensing the form it would take tonight.  Her lips curved up as the stone recalled great cliffs and a roaring waterfall.  The image of a rainbow over the cascade burned her eyelids, providing inspiration to start.

Gently, she set her backpack on the ground, sparing a quick glance around the alley before tugging he zipper.  Inside, sixteen cans of spray paint stood at attention.  Her heart swelled with pride every time she opened her specially designed pack, inside crisscrossed with layers of fabric to create a sleeve for each can, keeping them protected, and most importantly, quiet.

Harriet selected red - her favorite color.  A quick, curved motion and an arch appeared on the stone in front of her.  More colors followed; each building the rainbow she had seen.

She didn’t stop there.  Blue and white swirled together under the rainbow to create foaming water.  With a sharp turn, it cascaded into a pool of water, ripples billowing out to a border of rocks, coated in moss.  With a touch of gray, Harriett highlighted the stones, creating the illusion of cliffs containing the massive flow of water.

The sound of the midnight bus reminded her to hurry.  Green became a meadow, bright spots of color for flowers dotting the expanse.  She debated adding fish jumping out of the pool, but there wasn’t time.  Tucking her materials into their sleeves, Harriett stepped back to review her work.  Still a bit rough around the edges, but it would do.

Shouldering her backpack, she checked to ensure the coast was clear before placing both hands on the picture.  Eyes squeezed shut, she felt the magic running through her palms and into the stone.  She felt it awaken, slight stirrings underneath her fingertips.  Holding the image of a cliff in her mind, she released the stones from the mortar, infusing them with the memories of their former glory.

Done.  She stepped back.  To the untrained eye, the overpass looked much the same as before.  Her soul felt the excitement of the wall, as it began to shift to a new form – reshaping into the cliff from her painting.

Experience told her it would take two days for the structure to collapse, and a week at least to recreate the landscape she had created.  Plenty of time for authorities to recognize the painting and reroute traffic off the now condemned bridge.

Realizing she had forgotten to sign, Harriett reached over her shoulder for the red.  She gave the can a few good shakes as she surveyed the landscape, deciding what to name it.  With a smile, she held down the sprayer and added a few words beneath the green meadow and rippling pool:

Fall of Water by Preservationist

Tucking everything away, she sprinted down the alley, paint cans as silent as her soft soled shoes.

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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.

Finally, in order to keep this contest going AND GROWING, I'm asking folks to donate to the cause on my Ko-fi account. Let me assure you, 100% of the donations will go towards the contest prizes for this year and next!

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

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