WRiTE CLUB 2013 - Bout 14

It was another close vote, but Muleshoe comes out a winner from Bout #12.  Congrats!

Only enough time left to add three more to the list of play-off contenders, so let's get to it...shall we?

Our first contestant is here representing the YA Paranormal genre with a 500 word sample.  Say hello to...Alone.



“How much longer, Mom?” a small voice beside me asks.

“Soon, honey. Soon.” I say.

Cotton clouds hang near the sun, hitting the farmlands just right as we drive past. I look out from the backseat of the car, and imagine my husband just beyond them, waiting for my return. I long to be with him, but, I need to see my son one last time.

“He’s doing it again,” my sister complains from the passenger seat to her husband driving. She searches his face for a reaction. She just doesn’t understand, but she will one day.

“I know, I know,” he finally says keeping his eyes to the road. “This will take time. That’s what all the therapists say. These things take time.”

“Yeah, well, it’s…creepy.” She rubs her arms like it’ll stop the goosebumps from peaking.

I smile. She has no idea how creepy it really could be, but I miss her quirks already.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“How long do I have to stay with Aunt Quinn and Uncle Henry?”

He shows me his puppy eyes. I know them well having raised him nine years. He’s worried.

I rest my hand on his cheek, and rub my thumb up and down to soothe him, but it’s not working.

“I don’t know, honey. I guess until you can move out, right?” I laugh in my throat.

I moved out at eighteen. Married my high school sweetheart. Then came Chase. My sweet baby. I fell in love with him the moment I first held him and kissed his tender face. His father, what a proud dad he was.

Chase scrunches his eyebrows.

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey.” I lay my hand on his. I watch the clouds pass in the window behind him. A reminder my time is coming to an end and I’ll have to leave.

“Can’t I come with you?”

My heart hurts deep in my chest, as I restrain the swelling tears. He has to know its ok. He has to.

“No, I’m sorry,” I choke on the words, “you can’t, honey. But…”

“I want to!” He hits the seat with his balled fist. “I’ll miss you!”

“Chase!” Henry says. “Stop that!”

Chase quiets.

“Mom?”

“Honey, I’m sorry but-“

“You promised me you would never leave me, and-and now you are. You’re going.”

“But I have to.”

“Please! Let me go, too!” Chase inhales deeply and holds it. His face turns beet red, eyes tearing. He exhales, giving up, and begins to cry.

I bring his hands to my heart, then kiss them. “Soon, honey. I promise. We’ll be together soon, but I gotta go now.”

He holds my gaze, eyes red. “Mom…I love you.”

“Oh, honey…I love you more.” I stroke his hair with my hand, letting the tears fall, then kiss his head. “I love you more.”

“Henry?” Quinn whispers.

“Hmmm?” “How long do you think he’s gonna…you know…think he’s talking to his mom? I mean, it’s been a month since his parents passed in that car wreck.”
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And in the other corner with 470 words of YA Paranormal Fantasy is our other contestant, Ruby Red.

The face in the mirror stares back at me. The face isn't mine.

My ragged breath mists the mirror, obscuring the image.  But it is still there, a Mona Lisa smile upon her oval face. The reflection lifts a hand and gently erases the condensation with her palm. My heart races, the blood rushing round my veins like a speeding freight train.

I open my mouth to scream. The reflection continues to stare with unblinking, charcoal eyes, a hint of smug satisfaction clearly visible. I feel the scream rather than hear it. It forms in my belly like boiling acid before spewing from my mouth in an angry blast that mists the mirror once more. All I can see are those charcoal eyes burning into my soul. I tear my eyes away, I know... I know if I don’t she will possess me.

“Whatever’s the matter, Violet?” My mother’s exasperated voice floats up from the kitchen, yanking me from the brink. “Have you hurt yourself?”

I feel weak and grab the cold porcelain sink in front of me. Slowly, so slowly, I lift my eyes to the mirror, letting out a strangled sigh as I see my own, pale reflection staring back.

“Violet?” Mum is coming up the stairs; I can hear the thump of her slippers on every step. I have to move or she’ll be beating down the door any second.

“S’Ok Mum, sorry,” I sway like a branch in the wind, gripping the sink with both hands to anchor me. I mustn't let her know. Life is hard enough. We have lost so much already without her thinking I'm losing my mind too. Even though I must be, it’s the only rational explanation for what’s been happening the last couple of weeks. But if I am going mad, my idea of what’s rational or not will be screwed.

The door handle rattles, “Violet, what’s going on in there? Open this door immediately!”

“I've just dropped my bottle of foundation in the sink. Made myself jump,” I finally manage to squeak. “N-nothing to worry about.” Glancing down at the trail of creamy, honey coloured liquid that clings to the edge of the sink and pools around the plughole, I know it isn't exactly a lie.

“Well, make sure you clear it up. Every scrap mind. Clumsy girl!” Mum stomps back down the stairs, muttering to herself about messy teenagers.

I exhale deeply and turn on the hot tap. Sloshing the warm water around the sink with my hand, I wipe all traces of spilt foundation from sight. If only everything were that easy to erase, to forget.

Screwing the lid on the remaining contents, I shove it back in my make-up bag. I don’t feel like putting any on now. I'm too afraid to look in the mirror.
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Take your time and pick the sample that resonates with you the most.  As always, anyone can vote…just register on the Linky List HERE. Please remind your friends to make a selection as well. The voting will remain open until noon next Wednesday (Aug. 28th).

Remember, here in WRiTE CLUB, it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audience out!

 

Writing Weight

I'm at the precipice of taking a deep dive into WIP revisions, so I've been contemplating what needs to happen to nudge me over the edge.  That got me thinking of a blog post I wrote in 2009 that is still extremely relevant, so I thought I'd share it with you today.  I’m going to use a boxing (and wrestling) metaphor to make a point, so bear with me. 

You’ve all heard the term ‘fighting weight’?  It references the weight classifications professional boxers compete in.  A lightweight is 131-135 pounds.  Super lightweight 136 – 140 pounds.  Welterweight 141-147 pounds.  And so on and so forth.  These athletes usually don’t maintain this weight year round, it’s just too difficult.  They prefer to train and exercise just prior to the contest to lose the necessary pounds.   A boxer will generally try to have the maximum weight possible within the classification he/she is fighting in, as a good boxer will be able to use his weight to his advantage.

Although the phrase originated in the boxing world, it’s really not a practice exclusive to the sport.  Most athletes maintain just a minimum standard of conditioning during their non-competitive season, allowing their weight to balloon somewhat, then they return to their more stringent preparations as the sport season dictates.  The more they allow themselves to slough-off in the off-season, the harder it is to get back to that ‘fighting weight’ they need to be at to compete.

It’s not a stretch to consider that as writers, it’s our minds that should be in tip-top condition to produce material we hope is worthy of publication.  For me, however, there is a direct correlation between my physical condition and my mental one.  The better I feel...the more creative I am.  That's no surprise because increased blood flow to the brain (from exercise) reduces stress, as well as incidents of depression (writers never experience that…do we).  But there is also the cognitive element.   That becomes evident in our ability to assimilate information, comprehend relationships, and develop reasonable conclusions and plans.  I put it to you that it also powers the imagination. 

I’m just as guilty of sloughing off with my brain as I am with my body.  I’ll have periods where I’d rather watch hours of mindless television, play nonsensical video games, or giggle at stupid Youtube video's on the computer, anything other than something like engaging my brain with a really good book.  Its laziness…pure laziness…and I know it.  But I don’t mind so much because…you see…it’s the off-season.

It’s different when I’m starting a new book (or I'm about to revise one).  Time to get back into my writing weight.  How many of you do that?  Are you at your writing weight now?  Is your mind in tip-top condition?

Am I trying to tell you that you need to jump on a treadmill?  No, but a little exercise can never be a bad thing and it’s not the only way to keep our minds fit.  Read -- a lot.  Play chess.  Tackle a crossword puzzle.  Have a coffee date with some of your writing friends and talk about books. Do something that stimulates your mind and massages that frontal lobe.  How do you find the time, you ask?  If you’re serious about writing, like the boxer is about fighting, you’ll find time.

Your WIP will be better off because of it.

And if you haven't already, don't forget to vote for your favorite writing sample in bout 12 & 13 of WRiTE CLUB! 

WRiTE CLUB 2013 - Bout 13

A side note before we get started -- today marks my 500th blog post! Who'd have thunk? :) 

Anyway...a tip of the hat and bow at the waist for Emma T. Nestor for capturing enough votes in bout #11 to move into the next round. An honor well deserved!

For many, the number 13 could be considered an unlucky one.  I bet one of the two writers who step into the ring today might beg to differ...depending on its outcome.  But then again most of us realize that, as far as publishing is concerned, there is no such thing as luck.  What an outsider might call luck, I see it as the confluence of favorable events that align to benefit our own personal agenda.  There's a popular quote about luck that I'm rather fond of...Luck is where preparation meets opportunity...or in other words, we make our own luck.  The eventual winner of this bout will claim victory not because of some cosmic, supernatural concept that appears fortuitous.  No, they will have won because they possess talent and utilize a slightly better use of our written language (at least as far as these 500 words are concerned), so much so that they will entice you the reader to enter a vote of preference for their submission.  No luck...or unluck...here folks!

And to prove my point....

Our first contestant of the day, randomly chosen, represents the Suspense genre with 498 words.  Let me introduce to you...Slippery Slope.

The back of my neck itched like hell. It was a crazy, annoying type of itch that made me want to peel away the skin with my fingernails. Unfortunately, mine were too short. All I could do was rub my hand up and down my nape for temporary relief.

I lifted the lapel of my lab coat over my collar hoping the friction would help. I turned to John, my research partner.

"How are the trials coming along?"

I sensed his uneasiness as I watched his lips tighten and his forehead scrunch up. His eyes darted around nervously, looking up then left as if he were trying to remember a memory from twenty years ago.

"Well... uh.... they're kind of... " His words trailed off in a mumble.

My eyes narrowed and I felt the itch intensify at the bottom of my scalp.

"What? What's the problem?"

"They've... been put on hold." John quickly shifted his gaze down at the floor, then tilted his head up slightly, watching for my reaction.

"On hold?" I barked. "Who the hell decided that? We were getting good results!" I couldn't believe it. Three years of research and suddenly some dumbass decided it was time to take a break?

John made a placating gesture with his hands.

"We were shut down by the Patent and Trademark Office, Gabby. Apparently PFX-2 presents a threat to national security and now falls under the Invention Secrecy Act. We can't patent it. We can't test it. We can't even talk about it." The words came out in a rush, punctuated by a loud sigh. "We had to hand everything over to the government. It's no longer ours."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Are you fucking kidding me? The government can shut us down and take our stuff just like that?" I ran my hand over the back of my neck, rubbing furiously as I tried to process the information. This made absolutely no sense.  Why would something barely bigger than a fingernail be considered a threat to national security?  

"They can do anything they want, Gabby."

An angry retort sprang to my lips but I bit it back. I knew it wouldn't change the outcome. My shoulders slumped in resignation as I looked at John.

"So we had no choice." It was a statement, not a question.

"Nope."

"And we gave them everything." Another statement.

 "Almost." He paused. "Everything except the prototype."

My heart did a somersault in my chest.  "Really?" I turned to scan the lab. Microscopes, pipettes and microplates lined the counters and tables, along with a variety of rigs and chambers.

"You won't find it here. It's in a safe place -- somewhere where we can still test it and see how well it works."

That was good news. I considered the possibilities.

"Another lab?"

 "No. Better than that." He leaned over and squeezed my arm. "Just make sure you don't rub the back of your neck too hard."



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And on the opposite side of the battleground is an fighter who works in the Fantasy genre and offers us 483 words...allow me to introduce MultaPaucis.



Remington arrived at work punctually the morning after the gala. He hadn't imbibed enough to leave him uncomfortable this morning, and he applauded himself silently for that. Many new bodies awaited his consideration in the cold room of his mortuary. They required a clear head and palate.

He trotted down the stairs and locked the door behind him, whistling a merry tune as he pulled out his handkerchief, tucking it over his piercing-blue tie.

The five bodies were very dead, their skin pallid and stiff to the touch. Always good to make sure. Poor form, cutting into someone still living. Downright incompetent. There had been a case nearby where a mortician had cut into a live man, who then woke up screaming, and the mortician had stabbed him to death from fear. The whole story made Remington grimace, embarrassment he shared professions with the man, and he'd vowed never to make such a clumsy mistake.

He went over to the label station, where he jotted down a quick label for each of them, taping each label to a toothpick, which he laid neatly in a row on a plate. Next over to the fridge to pull out—Hm, which one this time? I've had too much of pears—grapes, nice and fat with ripeness. He laid the bunch of grapes beside the toothpicks, and picked up a scalpel.

Then over to the first body, removing the cloth over the inner leg area which would be covered out of modesty during any type of funeral. A few sure slices and he removed a wedge of flesh, stabbed it through with the correct toothpick, and laid it on the plate. The other bodies received the same treatment, a tiny wedge out of each leg, until he had a plate full of flesh and grapes, neatly arranged so that nothing touched.

Then he plucked up the first morsel, a piece of an old man who reportedly suffered a heart attack. He held it up to the light, examining the color and how much light got through. It was as could be expected, a pale, thin color, hardly dimming the light. He waved it around, then sniffed. The smell of decrepitude and decay. Then he took a deeper breath. Under the initial smell lay earth, as would be found in someone who worked hard. That was more promising.

He put his teeth around the toothpick and pulled the slice off, chewing it slowly while breathing in, exhaling through his nose. He rolled the flesh all around his tongue, making sure to take it in with all his taste-buds. It was, firm, heavy, mild, and dry, with a gamey aftertaste. Brentley returned to his label station, where he spat the flesh into his small, silver bucket. Then he washed his palate with a few grapes as he wrote notes on a sheet of paper.

Good enough for basic necromancy components.



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As always, anyone can vote…just register on the Linky List HERE.  Please remind your friends to make a selection as well.  The voting will remain open until noon next Sunday (Aug. 25th). 

Remember, here in WRiTE CLUB, it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audience out!