What
is WRiTE CLUB? It started off as a modest writing
competition, inspiration loosely derived from the movie FIGHT CLUB, and it has since grown into a writing community
sensation that is now sponsored by the DFWWriters Conference. There are
numerous versions of this concept floating around the internet, but nothing
like we do it here. Its essence embodies simple, good-natured
competition, with lots and lots of fun sprinkled on top.
Over
the course of ten weeks I’ll be holding daily bouts (M-F) between Anonymous
500 word writing samples, submitted under a pen name. The writing can be any genre, any style
(even poetry) with the word count being the only restriction. Today is Bout #9. Read each sample carefully and then leave a
vote in the comment section for the one that resonates with you the most. Anyone can vote... but only once per bout. Don’t forget to leave with a brief critique
of both submissions as well.
Voting
for each bout will remain open for one week. The winner of each will be posted
HERE, at the WRiTE CLUB
scoreboard. Are you ready?
Here
are the first two randomly selected WRiTER's.
Standing
in this corner, representing the fantasy genre and weighing in at 495 words,
please welcome to the ring……..Möbius
There
was only water, and then, a small raft.
Essa
hadn’t
realized that the Edge of the World would be so calm. Like the pause of
heartbeat and lung at the end of an exhalation, there was that same kind of
dead-air, of waiting, of uncertainty whether another breath could be drawn.
Far
different from journey along the rocky coastline, the capricious currents, and
the storms that shook and spun until her bearings were more tangled than a
rogue fishing line dredged-up from the reef.
The
water was still other than the ripple from her paddle and the bow of what had
once been a boat, before the waves, before the dark, before the wind that
scooped her like a gull scoops an oyster and dashes it to splinters.
This
was an uneasy quiet.
For
only gods and monsters lived at the end of the world, and Essa had come to beg
and barter. To sacrifice, if necessary, if that was the price asked. Out here,
or in the Wilds, there was no guarantee who would answer first: one who could
be persuaded to help, or one who would devour with the swift ruthlessness of a
winter gale.
She
lay the paddle down and drew a whale-bone knife from her pack. The trick was
where to cut, where it would bleed deep enough to summon, yet where it could
easily be bound. Hands were definitely out. It would be impossible to make the
long trek back.
If
there
was a long trek back.
Choosing
where to cut, that was a small, manageable decision. Thinking about what would
happen after...
Essa
lurched back, the paddle knocked wide with a splash. It was the reflection of
her own eyes that had spooked her. Too wide, too scared, too young-looking for
a warrior, for the one chosen and blessed by her village.
Blood
thrummed in her ears, pulled and pushed by the gravitational force of her fear.
She shut her eyes and drew a breath.
This
too was small. This too was manageable.
It
was important to master what was in her reach, because so much was not. Not the
ocean, not the sky, not the run of fish spawning in the rivers, and certainly
not the gods and monsters at the end of the world.
Retrieving
the paddle, yes, that was within her means. The seal-intestine towline was
strong, supple, and still tied tightly to her ankle. Essa pulled it in, hand
over hand, the paddle slicing a low wake until she fished it to safety.
She
crept forward and stared past her reflection, past the surface, past what she
could see and control, into the far-off deep. Each challenge, each step had
been building to this moment. She was strong. She was brave. She was loved. Her
blood would call a god, not a monster.
It
had to.
And
above her temple, along the hairline, she cut, and she bled.
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And in the other corner, representing the urban fantasy genre with 498 words let me introduce to you……….Gram Cracker
Hell, I'd take a slice
of existential crisis with a regretful hangover crust instead of registering
with the government. Imagine if the first time you saw yourself might be the
last time you took a breath. The safer option was never to leave the gorgon
homeland, the Isle of Stone, in the first place. Never try to live among humans
and the fallen Greek gods and make a life for yourself.
But I was never one to
play it safe.
Immortal friends and
student loans would be my financial death. My Brooklyn death, on the other
hand, now loomed ahead, blurring in the distance like a dark and murky
nightmare.
The Center of Sorrow and
Sisterhood or CSS was a bleak gray building with a lone black door at the
front. It was both a savior and destroyer for young gorgons like me. On our
thirtieth birthday, we either exited the front or shuffled out the back like a
failed experiment. I shifted the protective goggles on my face to ease the bite
of the frosty late autumn air.
No gorgons escaped this
date with destiny.
Thirty was the age we
discovered if we're cursed to turn living things into stone, cursed to live on
the dreadfully drab and far away Isle of Stone. I refused to return to a place
with dial-up Internet.
I was due to make an
appearance at the center earlier in the day but instead spent my last possible
hours soaking up as much of Brooklyn as possible. The air smelled differently
here and I didn't want to forget it. If I were forced to leave, I'd miss the
smell of freshly made bagels the most. Last night I dreamed I rode a bagel out
to sea and drowned. That couldn't be good.
My older cousin Leto
waved as I neared the doomed building. She had a few years on me and the
sorrow, aka the gorgon curse, skipped her. Would I be so lucky?
She grabbed my hand.
"You better hurry. They shut the doors in twenty minutes and there's
already a line. C'mon."
I followed behind her as
I always did in everything. She not only had age but height and financial
security over me. I'd barely chipped away at my undergrad and grad student
debt. My M.A. in immortal rehabilitation had come in handy on my job when
dealing with immortals, Zeus especially.
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Enjoying two talented writers at work is only part of the price of admission, now it’s up to you to decide who moves forward to the playoffs. In the comments below leave your vote for the winner. Which one tickled your fancy? After you vote please tell all of your friends to stop by and make a selection as well (but no coaching about who to vote for). Yes, it’s subjective, but so is the entire publishing world. It’s as much about the readers as it is about the writers.
This
is WRiTE CLUB – the contest where the audience gets clobbered!
