WRiTE CLUB 2013 - The Final Battle

And then there were two.  

Muleshoe vs Philangelus



Before turning this over to our celebrity judges to determine who will be the last WRiTER standing this year, I want to pause and thank all of the WRiTERs who were brave enough to submit their work. Such courage does not go unnoticed and should be recognized as well!

Before I reveal the new 500 word submissions that were submitted for this final round, let's take a moment to refresh our memories of just who those judges are.

Kendare Blake – is the author of the highly acclaimed Anna Dressed in Blood and Girl of Nightmares teen horror series.  She is an import from South Korea who was raised in the United States by Caucasian parents. She received a Bachelor's degree in Business from Ithaca College and a Master's degree in Writing from Middlesex University in London. She brakes for animals, the largest of which was a deer, which sadly didn't make it, and the smallest of which was a mouse, which did, but it took forever. Amongst her likes are Greek Mythology, rare red meat and veganism. She also enjoys girls who can think with the boys like Ayn Rand, and boys who scare the morality into people, like Bret Easton Ellis. Her first novel, Sleepwalk Society is a college story which she says falls into that no man's land they call, "New Adult". She has a new novel, Antigoddess (Goddess War #1), slated to be released this fall.

Katie Grimm –  Katie joined Don Congdon Associates in 2007, where in addition to maintaining her own client list she also acts as business manager.  She focuses on vivid literary fiction, transportive historical fiction, up-market women’s fiction, cohesive short story collections, and lurid mysteries & thrillers with exotic or historical settings.  In young adult, she is actively seeking both contemporary and fantastical high-concepts with a touch of romance.  In middle grade, she looks for heart and humor with a strange or creepy twist.  Most importantly, she is hooked by fiction with emotional resonance and longevity, and in her opinion, this requires an authentic voice, relatable characters, and a twisting plot that keeps her intrigued.  For non-fiction, she is looking for narrative non-fiction about history, popular science, off-beat topics, and counter-culture.  She is also a member of SCBWI.

Alice Speilburg -- Alice formed Speilburg Literary Agency in December 2012. She launched her publishing career in 2008 at John Wiley & Sons, where she worked primarily on narrative non-fiction and consumer health books. From there she transitioned to the agency side, working at Howard Morhaim Literary Agency on a broad spectrum of fiction and non-fiction, before branching out on her own. The agency is currently building its client list and is interested in character-driven novels in historical fiction, mystery, fantasy, and literary genres. She will take a look at anything middle-grade, YA, or adult. Also of interest are non-fiction authors with established platforms who are writing books on relationships, women’s issues, music and the arts, health, cooking, travel or history. 

Diane Dalton -- Diane has been a freelance editor since 1999. She has been the managing editor and acquisitions editor at Rhemalda Publishing since 2012. She has edited and critiqued novels, letters, web pages, and press releases for various authors and companies.

Diane has worked with small presses evaluating unsolicited manuscripts for potential publication. She has also coached authors in composition and editing.

Diane's expertise is in developmental editing, coordinating and editing projects from proposal through final manuscript, incorporating input from authors and reviewers. She also is an expert in stylistic editing, being able to clarify the author's meaning/intent, eliminating jargon and polishing language. She is proficient in web-based research and has experience using The Chicago Manual of Style.

 

Alex J. Cavanaugh – Alex is a science fiction writer on a journey of discovery...and blogger extraordinaire!  Online he is known as Captain Ninja Alex! He has a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree and works in web design and graphics. He minored in music and plays several instruments, including guitar. Alex is experienced in technical editing and worked with an adult literacy program for several years. A fan of all things science fiction, his interests range from books and movies to music and games, and those passions are reflected on his blog. He is the founder of the Insecure Writer's Support Group and co-host of the A to Z Challenge. His first book, CassaStar, was released October 19, 2010, and is an Amazon Best Seller. The sequel, CassaFire, was released on February 28, 2012. His third book in the series, CassaStorm, is scheduled for release later this year.

Tiana Smith – Tiana was the first ever WRiTE CLUB champion back in 2011! She grew up in Montana where she learned how to build a fire better than her husband, though she’s never ridden a horse. She graduated with an English degree with a creative writing focus from Westminster College and writes YA/MG books.  Tiana is currently querying her YA Fantasy novel – Dungeon Duty.  She also likes to design blogs, so if you're interested in getting one of her premade designs, please visit her shop @ The Blog Decorator.

Mark Hough – Mark was last years the 2012 WRiTE CLUB champion. Mark and his wife Faith live and work in Southern Connecticut, a short drive away from the music centers of New York City and Yale School of Music in New Haven. Mark is not only a talented writer, but he has been making violins, violas and cellos for 13 years, since he completing his 3-year apprenticeship with Lawrence Wilke in 1998. He is a member of the Violin Society of America, which has awarded Mark's violins two Certificates of Merit for workmanship.

Our judges have their work cut out for them, because these are two OUTSTANDING pieces of work.  

First, from the writer who has seemingly be destined for a spot in this round from the start... Muleshoe.

Look, I'm not saying it was the brightest thing I ever did.  But it's me telling the story, so lie still and let me get on with it.

Anyway, what I was saying was, it wasn't anyplace special: just a shoddy old ranch-house skirted around with some raggedy little peach trees that probably wouldn't fruit if you paid 'em.  I was just saying to old Pete that it probably had been a mistake to turn down that road.  Then we heard that almighty roar – you know the one.  Like if an avalanche could moo.

Now, I expect you're thinking the same as I was: "James, how in blazes do you get a giant all the way out in Quintanilla County?"

I'm getting to that part.

He came tearing out from behind the house: a whole half-ton of hairy brown desert ape, all mangy and rangy and crusted over with yellow quartz tumors.  Then he reared up at the sight of us, eight feet tall and surprised, that was what – like he was expecting somebody different. 

Well, there was plenty of that to go around.  Pete's ears went flat, and we agreed between us that it was high time to excuse ourselves.

That was when we heard the lady's scream.

Or maybe it was more of a shout.  I couldn't make out the shape of what she said, but I saw her plain enough – running out from behind the house, wearing an apron the color of a fresh marmalade smear – and the giant did too.  He turned and barreled right for her.

That was when I allotted on trespassing.  I kicked old Pete up to a gallop, and we jumped that fence good enough to leave six-inch skids in the dirt.  And I tell you what: when your hind-end is half up out of the saddle and the marmalade girl is waving her arms and hollering and you already know you are a worthless shot with the pistol you're pulling, your only notion is to run your horse up alongside that wild-minded woollybooger, draw your bead, and fire.

Well, it was the messiest clean miss I ever made.  The girl shrieked, the giant ducked, and old Pete – why, he chucked me ass over ears and tore off toot-de-sweet, as the hellbenders say.

Me and the dirt meditated on that for a bit.

"Merciful heavens, are you all right?"

I sat myself up by breathless busted inches, anxious to assure her that I was –

–  but she wasn't talking to me.  No, she was fussing over him, who'd huddled up there like some huge rancid haystack.  Patting his arm.  Soothing him in the tone you'd use for a child with a strawberry knee.

Did you ever notice that little moment, when your foot's missed the step but the rest of you still don't know it?

"What on God's earth is WRONG with you, mister?"

Plenty and more every minute, I could have said.  But mostly I was just delighted she'd called me mister.

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And our other contestant, similarly on a collision course with her opponent from the beginning, Philangelus.

Back in the waiting room, I call, "Mr. Davis? I have your vehicle."

The moment he's within arm's reach, I smell alcohol.

I force a smile. "Were you able to find lunch?"

Back in college we'd have called it a malted barley salad.

The man says, "Sure did. Thanks, Miss."

I stand corrected: that's no barley salad. It smells stronger than beer.

"Oh! Look at that." I try to sound breezy. "Sorry, but I'll need you to wait while I check out something we found."

The man says, "What is it?"

I fight nausea. "A potential problem between the front seat and the steering wheel that could cause an accident."

As proof that he's drunk, he accepts this.

I return to the Dodge. Maybe I can keep him sitting long enough to sober up. But Max already made me look over the thing for even the smallest billable fix. The CV boots, the axle, the rotors: they're fine, all disgustingly fine.  Other than it being a Dodge, there are no problems.

Max stalks over. "What's going on?"

"I can't give him the keys. He's drunk."

Max glowers. "What the hell do you care?"

I grimace. "I think we should care about people dying."

"I'm not getting involved." Max folds his arms. "Give him back his car."

"I'm going to find some other problem and fix it while he waits."

Max turns away. "Get the guy out of my shop. Park it on the street so it's not our problem, and then get back inside. I'm ticketing him out right now."

I call after Max, "We'd be liable."

"Not if you didn't notice anything."

I'm wedging the car into the narrowest space in the heretofore known universe, two inches longer than the car itself. It may actually be two inches shorter. No drunk guy will be able to pull out without hitting the cars in front and behind, and better to hit a parked car than a moving one. I hate this, but it's the best I can do. It's not my job to keep drunks off the road.

That's when I realize: It's not my job to keep drunks off the road.

They say you shouldn't use the phone while driving. Despite that, I find in the 911 dispatcher a very interested listener who wants to know exactly where I am, the license plate, the make and model, and the driver's name. All of which, hey!, are right here on the intake form.

I take a long time parking.

Max waits at the desk, hand extended.  I present the keys to the Deathmobile, and he encourages the customer to have a nice day. I issue directions to the spot fifty feet down the street. I have to do it three times. As the customer wanders away, Max says, "Good girl. Never get involved. Here, take an oil change."

By the time I have the car in the bay, Max is bellowing again, and this time, it means my job.

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Although your vote does not count towards the final decision, everyone (and I mean everyone...no Linky List restrictions this time) is welcome to offer an opinion in the comment section below.

The results will be posted next Monday, October 21st.  Good luck to both contestants!

Cover Reveal - Moonless

Today I'm happy to take part in the cover reveal for Crystal Collier's release of MOONLESS.  Her Young Adult (YA) Historical Paranormal Romance is scheduled to hit the market on November 13th, 2013

Here's the log line: Alexia must choose safety and an arranged marriage, or true love and being hunted by the Soulless every moonless night. Short Description: Alexia’s nightmares become reality: a dead baron, red-eyed wraiths, and forbidden love with a man hunted by these creatures. After an attack close to home, Alexia realizes she cannot keep one foot in her old life and one in this new world. To protect her family she must either be sold into a loveless marriage, or escape with her beloved and risk becoming one of the Soulless.

MOONLESS is Jane Eyre meets Supernatural.

In the English society of 1768 where women are bred to marry, unattractive Alexia, just sixteen, believes she will end up alone. But on the county doorstep of a neighbor’s estate, she meets a man straight out of her nightmares, one whose blue eyes threaten to consume her whole world—especially later when she discovers him standing over her murdered host in the middle of the night.
 
Among the many things to change for her that evening are: her physical appearance—from ghastly to breathtaking, an epidemic of night terrors predicting the future, and the blue-eyed man’s unexpected infusion into her life. Not only do his appearances precede tragedies, but they’re echoed by the arrival of ravenous, black-robed wraiths on moonless nights.
 
Unable to decide whether he is one of these monsters or protecting her from them, she uncovers what her father has been concealing: truths about her own identity, about the blue-eyed man, and about love. After an attack close to home, Alexia realizes she cannot keep one foot in her old life and one in this new world. To protect her family she must either be sold into a loveless marriage, or escape with the man of her dreams and risk becoming one of the Soulless.

For those of who not familiar with Crystal, she is a former composer/writer for Black Diamond Productions. She can be found practicing her brother-induced ninja skills while teaching children or madly typing about fantastic and impossible creatures. She has lived from coast to coast and now calls Florida home with her creative husband, three littles, and “friend” (a.k.a. the zombie locked in her closet). Secretly, she dreams of world domination and a bottomless supply of cheese. You can find her on her blog and Facebook, or follow her on Twitter.

Congratulations Crystal! 

Crystal will be dropping by my blog for an interview on November 14th, so make sure you make plans to check that out as well!

WRiTE CLUB 2013 Playoffs Semi-Finals Bout #2

This is the last of the open voting rounds for the WRiTE CLUB playoffs.   

The fighters have been given the opportunity to "tweak" or edit their current submission based on the input voters have left for them, and that is what will do battle before you Monday and today.  No wildcard in this round.

The two fighters who make it to the finals will be asked to once more submit new 500 word writing samples, and that will be what is forwarded to our celebrity judges. Of course I'll post them here on my blog for you to comment on, but it will be our judges who make the final selection.

Our writers are ready, the crowd is restless, lets get this show on the road!

Stepping into the near corner, please welcome back to the ring...Alone.

Thanksgiving 1972 

Darkness blanketed the trees along the lane as the truck’s headlights dressed the bottoms of them in its glow.

“Um…how much farther, Mister?” I searched his grizzly face. His emotionless eyes glared into mine, smearing on a sly grin, then focused back on the road.

It was that very smile that coaxed me into his truck, promising me a ride to the nearest payphone to call a tow.

But since a year ago…that smile haunted me.

The man’s hand reached to my exposed leg. I flinched against my seat, inhaling. He stopped a moment, then redirected, turning the radio dials till Loretta Lynn bellowed through the speakers.

I exhaled, closing my eyes. “Um….”

“Soon, honey…soon.” He cooed through dried lips, turning the radio up.

“My-my parents are expecting me for Thanksgiving dinner anytime now so…at least they know I’m on this road.” I tried to sound as convincing as possible, while a nervous sweat escaped my pores. “I…um, called them from a payphone before the car broke down twenty miles ago.”

The man broke his eyes from the road again, lingering them on me. His smile drew wider, exposing tobacco-ridden teeth. “That’s good, honey…that’s good.”

In the distance, a green rectangular sign reflected the next gas station to be fifteen miles away. A deep breath escaped me, trying to calm my nerves.

Just a few more miles.

“See, honey? Almost there,” he comforted with a Cheshire grin. “Thirsty?”

I relaxed in my seat. “Yeah…yeah, I am.”

The man pulled a flask from his jacket’s inner pocket, unscrewing the top with one hand, and offered it. Taking it to my parched lips, I tipped my head back, and returned the top to the flask. I handed it back, coughing, letting it trickle out the side of my mouth. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, honey,” he chuckled gruffly. “You’re welcome.”

The music continued playing in the background as he turned it up more.

“Mister.” My eyes fluttered, my head tipped back and forth in a drunken stupor. “I can’t…I ca….”

Dropping my head to my chin, I closed my eyes, feeling the truck swerve hard down a dirt road.

“You’ll make an excellent addition,” he sneered as I lifted my eyes, seeing the broken-down barn up ahead.

Swaying left, I moaned, reaching into my jean pocket. “This is for my baby sister!” I yelled flipping the switchblade out and stabbing hard into his throat. The truck veered off the road, as his hands flailed, his neck streaming blood. I jerked the steering wheel hard, his body falling into my lap, shaking erratically, as the truck ran through the barn doors and slammed into a metal wall dangling bloodied shackles.

My head thrust forward into the dashboard, knocking me back. Smoke slipped through the smashed hood. Blood streamed down my face, my heart beating hard. I looked down to see the man lying on the floor under me quivering still. I lifted my spiked boot, and drove it hard into his skull.

**********************************************************************************************

And in the far corner, their willing opponent....Muleshoe.

On the third day, God said: Now you just stay there and think about what you did.

So Elim stood where they'd tied his hands to the posts of the main street promenade, leaning into the dwindling shade as the sun climbed higher.  The rest of the dust-choked street was long since deserted.

Which left just Elim, standing spread-armed between the beams, struggling to keep his aching head shaded and his sluggish thoughts pious as his back and shoulders roasted in the sun.

That was a tall order.

It was powerfully difficult to let his gaze rest on the walkway without thinking of the people it had been built for.  The raised wooden walk had kept their genteel boots out of the mud; the open sloping roof had guarded their reverend heads from the rude heat of the day.

They would have been fine, decent folks.  They wouldn't have left even a bastard like Elim strung up like this.  But they had long since passed on to their reward, and left him at the mercy of their brutal heirs.

He was close, though – so close his sweat dripped onto the weathered gray planks.  If he could just get past the pain in his arms and the tightness in his chest and lean in far enough to get his head into that heavenly shaded space – just for even a minute – he would surely breathe in some of their deathless grace, and understand how to account for himself.

That kept him busy enough that the slow, rhythmic thud of hooves took him by surprise. Startled, Elim glanced back over one shoulder –

–just as an enormous brown face hung itself over the other.  There beside him was Molly Boone: unbridled, unsaddled, and apparently having liberated herself from the corral.  Elim’s mouth cracked in a smile.

"Miz Boone," he declared in a parched whisper, "you are a brazen hussy.  Is this you flauntin' yourself around town without your bonnet on?"  He closed his eyes as her lips anointed his face with a streak of oaty slobbers.  "And dolin' out your affections to any man in the street, I see.  Ain't you 'shamed?"

No, not hardly.  Shame was for people – for creatures who could sort right things from wrong ones, and hold themselves accountable for the difference.

Elim breathed in her warm-barn smell, and steadied his resolve.  "Don't listen to any of what they said about me, now.  You know I ain't like that."

He had to get himself sure on that too.  Back home, he could have said it for a certifiable fact: he did not and never had hurt anyone.

Here, though...

Elim glanced down the empty street, past the adobe walls shimmering in the heat and the tilting burnt-out church steeple, to the black-iron manor at the end of the road. 

Maybe this place had changed him into a murderer.  Elim couldn't have said whether it had that power.  But it certainly was fixing to change him into a dead man.
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Please leave a vote in the comments section for the one who you believe deserves to move onto the finals. Voting for both semi-final bouts will remain open until noon on Sunday, October 13th. Help me spread the word about what is happening here.  Anyone can still vote, as long as they register on the Linky List.

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