WRiTE CLUB 2021 - Preliminary Bout #3

 

We're back with the next preliminary bout. Remember, the voting for each bout remains open for an entire week, so if you missed one or two you can always go back and catch up.

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 Tuesday, Dec. 144th (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 Flipside representing the Women's Fiction genre.

Ruby sat at the kitchen table, pen in hand as she gazed upon the rolling hills of the farm outside her window. It was spring, and the sun through the glass warmed her face as she struggled with what to say. Grasping the pen, she winced from the pain of arthritis.

My Dearest Annie.

She scratched it out.

Annie.

Just her name would be best.

“How can I tell her?”  The image of a little tow-haired boy being chased by a skinny-legged girl came floating into her mind. “You two. Always friends. Always laughing. I remember that first day he came into Sunday school, all red cheeked from running. His father said he was a handful, but I never had a moment’s trouble out of him. I should never have agreed to teach that Sunday school class…teaching leads to nothing but trouble.”

Annie,

Jimmy’s dead.

 The words staring from the paper, she decided brevity was best in this situation, so she would only require a postcard. No. Short and to the point—that was how she determined to handle telling Annie the news.

Hit by bread truck.

Should she put that?  She usually didn’t hesitate to put the cause of death; it was what people were going to ask anyway so why not tell them straight away?  Less chance of gossip and speculating. So yes, she would put that. “Best she gets used to life letting you down, and no amount of flowery language will take away facts or pain.”

Rifling through her stationary box, she discovered only one postcard: an Easter postcard with a pastel yellow daffodil and pale brown rabbit. Annie had always loved rabbits and flowers; this would let her know she was thinking of her in this tragic event.

How to end?  After several false starts, she settled on the simple:

Mother.

Laying the pen down, Ruby retrieved a newspaper clipping worn and thin from age and handling. It was usually hidden in the bottom of her stationary supplies, but times such as these made her crave it like an amulet. “He’s dead,” she said resolutely. “Dead. Love always dies.”

As she fingered the ancient, yellowed article she whispered softly to it, “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

Sorry, she thought. Sorry for so much. She thought about adding this to the card, but stopped short of putting the words on there. It was true: she was sorry. She was very sorry. Very sorry for all of it: for the bizarre and tragic death of Jimmy; for his father’s loss; for her daughter’s loss; for all of it. “She’s not a little girl anymore. She’ll be fine—she’ll bounce back. She’s too young not to.”

Too young not to. She remembered the words from years ago, but death never got easier. 

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On the far side of the ring, we have S.L. Grady who represents the Mystery/Thriller genre.

The door opens and Lexi races towards me. I sink to my knees and wrap my arms around her furry chest as she covers my face in wet kisses. “Okay,” I tell her. “Walk time!”

 

Winter means that daylight is scarce, and the lingering rain clouds only deepen the sinister feel of the night. Regardless, I equip myself with a flashlight and rain boots before Lexi and I drive to McCormick Forest Park.

 

The empty trail head is unsurprising and a relief we have the place to ourselves. “Go ahead,” I motion Lexi out of the car and she happily obliges; her tail spinning as she darts into the forest.

 

Not before long, the bright white light shining from my flashlight dims to a lackluster yellow. I swear it had a full charge before I left. Without warning the flashlight shuts off, blindsiding me into pure darkness.

 

“Lexi!” I call her name, reassured when I hear her familiar pant. Without any light, I can barely make out the shadows of the trees that stand before me. “Let’s go,” I tell Lexi, turning back towards the car.

 

The sudden snap of a twig from behind jolts my body like a strike of lightning. I instinctively tense, paralyzed from taking another step forward. “Hello?” My shallow voice trembles.

 

I cautiously continue forward, trying to sidestep stray branches. Unsettling silence radiates across the forest. “Lexi?” I don’t hear the clank of her collar against her heart shaped tag. “Lexi,” I call again, this time louder.

 

Panic arises in my chest; I need to get to the car, I need to find Lexi. “Lexi!”

 

Another snap of a branch breaks the stillness that permeates the air. I am not alone.  

 

I quicken my pace, but rain soaked dirt gloms onto my boots, weighing down my feet with each step. Finally, I see the faint glow of a street light ahead.

 

Breathless, I reach the car. Before I open it, Lexi emerges from the trail. Relief calms my hammering heart. “Get in!” I yell.

 

On the drive back home, I have one hand on the steering wheel and the other on Lexi. “What’s that?” My hand reaches into her mouth and pulls out what feels like a long, tattered rope. I throw it on the floorboard amongst empty water bottles and crumpled store receipts.

 

The following morning I drive into work, still shaken from the night prior. I turn on the radio to quell my unease, landing on the local news station. “19 year old Tara Johnson went missing Tuesday night. She was last seen walking her dog Maggie near McCormick Forest Park.” My blood turns cold.

 

I gulp down a bottle of water and throw it on the floorboard. My eye catches the blue rope I must have pulled from Lexi’s mouth last night. I look again. It’s not a rope, but a canvas collar. Still damp, I scrape away the dirt that is caked over the nameplate. “Maggie.”

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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.

Before we sign off, 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 or Chrome browsers they have 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.

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 another 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!