WRiTE CLUB 2021 - Semi-Final #1

We're not messing around anymore! By the end of this round we will have narrowed the field down to just two contestants, and they will be submitting their 1,000-word writing sample to the panel of celebrity judges. 

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

The voting for both semi-final bouts will close on Wednesday, Feb 2nd (noon central time).

Here once again 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.


Without further ado...welcome back to the ring our first contestant...Fern Calloway

For Their Sake

Gayle leans forward, bracing herself against the headstone, hanging her head as if in prayer. Guilt and failure settle into her throat. She swallows them down as she traces a finger over her sister’s name.

These children, her baby sister’s children, are sucking the life out of her. She shouldn’t be raising them. She doesn’t know how to be a mother. And to four young children? Impossible.

Gayle pulls the leather-bound book from her coat, flopping it open onto her sister’s grave. “I’m sorry, Lynn,” Gayle says. “I tried. I did. But I … I can’t.”

Behind her, the kids cry in the car. One of them pounds on the windows. She glances their way and holds up a finger as if they might understand she just needs one damn minute. Something they haven’t allowed since they’d become hers. But they aren’t hers. Not really.

They need their mother.

She turns back to the open book. Rain splatters onto the pages, threatening to wash away the words. Between sobs and apologies, she reads aloud, raising her voice over the storm, determined to maintain the proper cadence, careful to hit every accent. Gayle doesn’t speak Latin, but desperate times have led her here.  

The final words linger on her tongue, buzzing with potential. She pants from her efforts, her throat raw and burning. “Please don’t hate me for this.” Her voice cracks. “They need you.” She closes her eyes and falls prone onto the grassy grave. “I need you.”

As the rain pelts into her backside, she cries, letting her tears mix into the soil, pleading with whatever may be listening that can bring Lynn home.  After a while, the children fall silent and her own sobs fade. That’s it. There’s nothing more she can do. No more pleading. No more begging.

Crestfallen, she trudges back. The children are once more pounding on the windows, their little faces wide-eyed with a mix of panic and something she hasn’t yet seen on them. Joy?

The oldest girl points, then opens the car door. She races past Gayle, giggling as a gap-toothed smile lights up her face.

“Momma,” the other children shout in unison and chase after their sister, leaving the infant to wail in his car seat.

Gayle glances over her shoulder, her gaze following them.

Her sister stands by a mound of loose dirt, covered in mud and dripping with rain. She holds out her hands as the children rush into her. She licks what’s left of her lips, the skin of her gaunt cheeks sallow. Useless veins snake dark purple lines over her features.

She redirects her attention to Gayle, her eyes narrowing as she peels herself from her children and closes the distance.

“You’re a selfish bitch, Gayle.” She glances back to her children. “If this is going to work,” she whispers. “We’ll need meat. Fresh. Raw. Bloody.” A maggot drops from her ear and wriggles in the grass. “For their sake.” 

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And their most worthy opponent...give a hearty welcome to Durden Mayhem

I’m in a one-way love relationship. 

I have a major crush on a woman who doesn’t know I exist. 

Steph’s a Starbucks barista, and when she waits on me, I swoon. 

As an introvert, I’m always looking for quiet ways to impress her. When I go to her store, I always take three heavy, hardback books hoping to appear intelligent. I figure if she sees the titles I bring in, she’ll think I’m a medical student rather than an Amazon delivery guy.

 

Steph’s always nice to me, but it troubles me that she always asks my name for the order. I’ve told her “Mark” for 21 days straight, yet she never remembers it. 

I wish she would.

Being an un-remembered, unknown is hard.

Maybe I’m just a Smiths song…or the one by Beck.

 

Still, I return today, hopelessly devoted.

 

After parking my books, I get in line behind a corporate-looking fellow. He’s the sort I immediately despise because I imagine he is much better off than me and, thus, better than me. I’m decent-looking but he’s an Adonis. Well-dressed, white-toothed, wealthy, and fluent in frat boy.

 

He snaps out his very specific order: “Venti latte. Extra hot. No foam.”

Then his phone buzzes, and he takes the call - in Chinese.

 

As Steph tells him his total, he frowns at the interruption and holds up a serious, silencing finger as if he’s tele-counseling the Dalai Lama. Then, wagging his finger at her, he mouths again, “NO FOAM!”

 

He steps to the side – no tip.

Steph’s obviously just machinery to him.

I’m next. I order in insecure mumble-tones. I pay, tip, and step aside because Steph is busily covering both register and bar due to a late co-worker.

 

When she finally delivers Zeus’ drink with an obligatory smile, he doesn’t smile back. Instead, he does a quality check. He removes the lid and stares into his drink with horror. 

I see why.

Foam.

FOAM!!!

FOAM!!!!!!!

He sees it. I see it. She sees it.

 

“There’s foam,” he barks. “I told you twice. Are you stupid? Re-make it.” 

He shoves the open cup back across the counter. It flips over and splashes molten liquid onto Steph’s hands.

She bounces backward - burned and bewildered.

He glances at me, laughs, and utters a flippant, “Oops.”

But no apology. 

Steph is crying, and I am Fight Club furious.

I radar-lock onto this oppressor. With two quick moves, I grab the top book from my stack and swing it into his face. His nose bone cracks. As he stumbles, I swing the other side of the book with violent intent and crush his mouth. Then I grab his Hermes tie and hurl him temporarily into the Underworld.

He’s out cold.

Shocked, I stand over him...rage subsiding.

Steph approaches, smiling.

“Thank you, Mark.”

“Wait, you know my name?”

She touches my arm, “I’ll never forget it.”

I hear distant sirens blare. I await the cuffs. I anticipate jail time. 

Doesn’t matter. She knows my name!

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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 detraction's.

We’ll be back tomorrow with our other semi-final bout. 

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