WRiTE CLUB 2021 - Cage Bout #4

Reminder - You can follow along with all of the bout results HERE.

Here's how WRiTE CLUB cage bouts work. Instead of two writers competing against one another, now it's THREE AT ONCE. But there's a twist. All of the winners have been given the opportunity to absorb the feedback offered during their preliminary round and submit an edited version of their original submission. As a writer, utilizing feedback can be a tricky proposition - because frankly - not all feedback is equal. This is our chance to see how the contestants used that feedback (if at all).

The readers/voters are to choose one of the three to move on.  There will be six daily bouts (Mon-Sat), and no saves this time.

Remember, one of the real values of this contest is FEEDBACK. So, please be respectful with your remarks!

Even though there will be a different bout every day (M-S), because of time restrictions the voting period will be staggered somewhat, so please pay attention to the dates posted. The voting for today’s bout will close on Tues, Jan 18th (noon central time).

The piece that garnishes the most votes will move on to the next round where they’ll face a different opponent with a BRAND 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.

Here are the contestants for this first cage bout (in random order) are -

Trelawney

Chapter One

 

Come along. If you follow me, we might catch him before he shuts the shop.  Stay close to me.  These streets are dark and narrow, and slither through the city like a snake.  A child could easily get lost here.  Hurry now.  Down this alleyway – past the Captain’s Cavern pub and - yes, we’re just in time.  Look, he’s closing the shutters.  Quietly now.  Don’t let him see us.  Slip into this doorway and peep out carefully.

Ah, you’ve seen him, I can tell.  Quite a sight, isn’t he?  His name’s Fraser.  Fraser Crannog - of the Clan Crannog as he always reminds people.  You won’t forget that, will you?

F R A S E R   C R A N N O G. 

He doesn’t like it if you get his name wrong, and it’s always ‘Mr Crannog’ at first. I know, he’s a wild looking man.  If we were a little closer, you’d be able to see his thick, grey caterpillar eyebrows, his radish-red nose, his hair all wild and spiky.  But, most of all, you’d see his eyes: sharp, shiny and icy blue.  The sort of eyes that seek out your secrets.  Your - very - deepest - secrets.  Can you see the shop window?  Look at those old lamps, antique toys, ancient books, pieces of furniture – all so thick with dust you could write your name in them.  Finn does sometimes. Who’s Finn? Oh, you’ll find out soon enough. 

Crannog’s Curios – ah, you spotted the sign and yes, you’re right, it is an antique shop – officially.  But Fraser sells more than that.  Much, much more.  But we must go.  He’s locked the door – he’s on his way home.  Stay quiet. Quiet.  He’s passing, so close we could reach out and touch him – can you smell the stale tobacco?  That’s from his pipe. He smokes it all the time. He’s walking down the alley now to the main street, his footsteps echoing.  He’ll disappear in a moment, into the swirling mist that chokes Edinburgh tonight.  Now, let me take you to meet Finn.

***

Here we are, on the other side of the city.  Look at those gloomy old flats.  Finn Silvers is up there in his tiny bedroom. It smells musty and damp. Can you see him, looking out from the top floor window, a blanket round his shoulders? He’s wishing – wishing that he could fly like the birds that are roosting in the tops of the trees.  If he could, he’d fly back to London, back to the time when his Mum was alive.  His old life, where his Dad hadn’t married Sylvia.  It will be tea-time soon.  His Mum used to bake and cook lovely meals with roast potatoes and gravy; Sylvia gives him Spam and cabbage.  Finn’s always hungry now. Come, I’ll take you up.  Hold tight.

“Finn!  Come here this instant.”  Ah, there’s Sylvia - that lemon-faced, bony woman in the frilly apron.  Don’t be scared, she can’t see you.

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Contestant number two is Battlestar Bear

He didn't have a destination in mind, but when Jael found himself on the catwalk of one of the three watchtower spires, he finally slowed himself to stand and look out across the great river that wound down from the Dark Mountains to the north. The sun was low across the foothills to the west, casting a warm glow across the cool stone railing.

Jael gripped the edge and leaned forward. The wind was wild at this height and he closed his eyes to listen to it as it whipped and whistled around his head. Autumn was fast approaching and there was a tang of wood smoke and leaves in the air. He breathed in deeply and reached for his power. It responded like an eager child, ready to come out and play.

He stood back from the rail and lifted his hands in front of him. Regealth had been trying to teach him how to meter the amount of magic he called forth.  "Little sips and tastes," the old mage had explained. Now, Jael raised his hands and called two wisps of blue electricity. The magic wound through his fingers, the tendrils of energy pulsing and crackling as they snaked over the backs of his hands.

He watched it, his eyes narrowing as he tried to gather it in his palms. The magic fought him and he grimaced, applying more focus. Some of the strands started to pool together, but others broke off and continued their strange game of chase around his fingers.

"Sky magic is always so temperamental," a lilting voice said from behind him.

Jael dropped his hands and the blue energy dissipated into the air like tiny lightning bolts. He turned to see a very young woman peek around the curve of the spire. She grinned.

"Ah," he breathed out, "you found me."

"Aye, my lord," she said, coming closer.

Jael held his hands back up in front of him.

"I don't know why it won't do what I wish," he murmured.

The young woman smiled again. She held one hand up, a crackling sphere of green energy sitting neatly in her palm.

"Sky magic is hardest because it is all around us," she began. The sphere flattened out and began to form a swirling disc.

"It is like a horse."

She drew her fingers together and pulled down, calling the disc to form a cyclone. The wind began to whip around them faster, as if reacting to her magic.

"You must stay in control so it will do as you ask."

Jael watched in wonder as she used her other hand to twirl above the spinning cyclone. Fine tendrils of energy spun out like glass, shimmering in the late afternoon sun. Then, with one swift move, she pulled her hands apart and the magic scattered like a fine mist that settled over them both and flickered away.

"Show off," Jael smirked.

"Regealth won't let me play like this when we study," Isabela chuckled.

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And finally, number three is MIM

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, who has a pruny face, glacial eyes, and the social skills of a Yeti.

I have fifty more minutes to melt Queenie with my red-hot driving skills and snag that Norwegian driver’s license. Since my family and I arrived from Houston five months ago, I’ve avoided the road test, terrified I’ll muff it. Crazy to think, but a few slips behind the wheel could cost me $4,000 and 20 hours at driving school. I’m 46, not 16, and have much better plans for my money and time.

So, here I am piloting Queenie smoothly, steadily, and moderately southeast on the motorway when she tells me to exit. Sandnes has four exits, so Queenie needs to cough up more info. “This Sandnes exit?” I ask, gesturing toward a blue highway sign. 

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

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

“Ja.”

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, it's a tangled mass of crisscrossing streets and snack-sized roundabouts lined with cyclists, pedestrians, runners, and baby carriages, all waiting to leap into the crosswalks and bring oncoming cars to a halt. I’ve learned two things: stop for crosswalks, and crosswalks are everywhere.

All the ex-pats have PTSD from this Sandnes driving hell. “I was white-knuckling the steering wheel and going about 10 miles an hour,” said Debbie, the triathlete from Denver.

Jana told me, “I was trying to turn left, but the green arrow wouldn't come. Sweat was just streaming down my back, 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.

“Turn at the next right,” says Queenie.

“By the apotek?” I ask. 

She huffs, brushing something (probably) fake off her jacket sleeve. “Is that the next right?”

Maybe? As I’ve learned recently, the “next right” could be the drugstore. Also, it could be a dead-end alley the width of a Gremlin. Reversing in such a situation really wakes you up in the morning.

Nonetheless, I turn right because Queenie says to. 

Around the corner, it’s suddenly silent, and we are not moving. Through my front windshield, I see a red-faced old man shaking his fist at me. He’s in the crosswalk, and so is my car. 

Queenie’s cut the engine, and my Norwegian driving dreams are dead.

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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.

Finally, in order to keep this contest going AND GROWING, I'm asking folks to donate to the cause on my Ko-fi account (shown on the sidebar). 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 cage 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!