WRiTE CLUB 2021 - Playoff Bout #1

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

There will be three bouts this week (Wed-Thur-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. 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 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 Wednesday, Jan 26th (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 yet 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.

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

Fern Calloway

What’s Your Story?

 

You run a finger across the chiseled wood carved to resemble hand. You pretend it belonged to a calloused pirate and wonder at the truth behind this rustic prosthesis.

You gaze over your collection. A cigar box full of glass eyes. A few arms hanging on the wall. A leg leans into the corner next to your coveted pirate hand. You realize then what you’re missing. Their stories. You could collect a hundred different pieces, but without history, they’re worthless.

You type up an ad on Craigslist offering money to interview an amputee. You keep it short. You’ll pay for their story; the prosthetic you’ll take. It’s more fun that way. More of an adventure.

Ad submitted, you let your mind wander toward the future, picturing your interviewee coming to, a little groggy and missing a limb.

“Nothing new there,” you say aloud, chuckling to yourself.  You decide to leave them with extra cash, instead of just the agreed upon sum. You’re not a monster.

Barely an hour ticks by before the phone rings.

You snatch it from the cradle before the first ring ends. “Hello.”

“I saw your ad.”

You stand, pacing the room, almost giddy. “Fantastic. Arm? Leg?”

The caller hesitates. “Leg.”

You fill the lingering silence. “Can we do this in person?”

“Yes,” the caller says. “Wherever. I’m starving. How soon?”

The caller’s eagerness matches your own and trepidation tickles your nerves. Maybe this isn’t the best idea. You shake off the feeling and agree to meet near the café in an hour.

When you arrive, something doesn’t sit right. You start to turn and leave, then stop. A door in the alley across from The Sammy Snack opens and a scruffy-looking man stands in the threshold like he belongs there. In the empty cement room behind him, you glimpse two metal chairs. How long has he been waiting before you arrived?

“You the guy?” you say, half hoping he isn’t. He nods, lifting a pant leg to expose the metallic rod that disappears into his shoe. You don’t need to see the neoprene foot to know it’s in there. He gestures you inside.   

As you squeeze past him to enter, he inhales audibly. “Delicious,” he says, his sour breath warm against your ear.

Regret and dread settle into your belly.

Something pinches your neck, followed by stinging. Light glints off the needle as he pulls it away. It’s then you know you messed up.  You try to speak, managing only panicked squeaking. Your limbs are already numb, uncooperative.

You stumble, falling to the floor.

The door latches shut.

He shimmies your pants off, and you’re helpless to stop him.

“Eating from a stranger isn’t ideal.” He runs his tongue over your calf making yummy sounds in his throat. “I’d eat my other one, but then I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.” He chuckles “Just think of the story you can tell when someone inevitably asks, what happened to your leg?” 

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Our second contestant is Trelawney

Chapter Two

“Finn! What’s this on the carpet?” 

Oh, those shrieks! Poor Finn, always in trouble. Citric Sylvia. Acid tongue and acid heart. I see she makes you shiver. Hold my hand if you wish – and remember, she can’t see you.

“Er, I think it’s mud. Sorry.” Finn’s always polite to his stepmother. “Maybe I trod in some walking back from school?”

But Sylvia is on the warpath.  She wants this cockney cuckoo, as she calls Finn, out of her nest. “I’ve had enough! You’re always here, making a mess. I’m going to find you a job – in a shop, where you work after school and at weekends.” I know, she’s practically spitting as she stalks into the kitchen and slams the door.  Press your ear against it, she’s whispering to herself:

“A job that’s very dangerous, so I can be rid of you.”

A very determined woman, Sylvia.  I confess I rather fear for Finn.

Let’s go into his room while he cleans up the mud and look at the city lights from the window. If you had binoculars, you’d be able to see Edinburgh’s Royal Mile and Jeanie McSweenie pedalling furiously over the cobbles on her old black bicycle, the wheels turning so fast they send sparks into the sky.  Who’s Jeanie, you say?  You haven’t heard of her?  I thought Jeanie and her potions had gone into the history books.  You do have a lot to learn. Come, let me take you closer. You’ll meet Finn again soon.

 

***

There she is, Jeanie McSweenie the celebrated apothecary, dismounting her bicycle and resting it against the railings by the churchyard.  Fingers of mist curl out from behind the gravestones, as if beckoning her to join them.  She takes no notice.  It takes more than a bit of fog to scare her. Can you see her long red plait, swinging beneath the battered black beret rammed onto her head?  I sometimes think she only wears that beret to hide her eyes - small, sharp, and dark as currants.  Currant eyes. Clever eyes.  There she goes, down that narrow passage, moving fast – so fast, it’s as if she doesn’t want to be seen.  Maybe she doesn’t.  

A small dog appears from the shadows; all white except for one smooth, shiny black ear.  Yes, it looks as if it’s been waiting for her. “Hey Lightfoot,” she says softly, as she bends to stroke him.  Lightfoot wags his tail, turns, and scratches at a door which is almost hidden in the passage wall. It opens, just enough to let the flickering light of a candle fall on Jeanie’s freckled face.   Listen hard, what’s that she’s saying?

“The potion … yes ... Fraser Crannog said it worked.  He …”  

She steps inside, along with Lightfoot. The door shuts. Time to leave - the alleyway is pitch dark again and the fog seems thicker. You want to follow? No, not yet. You aren’t ready. There are ... dangers. Come back though. I’ll be waiting.

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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 tomorrow 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!