WRiTE CLUB 2014 – Bout #3

Today we announce our first winner! Congratulations to Lord Codpiece for winning Bout #1 and thus securing a spot in the play-offs. Voting for Bout #2 remains open until 11:59 PM on Wednesday, June 25th. 

For anyone who's dropping by for the first time, here's a summary of what's taking place. On May 3^rd we began taking submissions from WRiTER’s far and wide, spanning the globe, representing all ages and multiple styles of WRiTING.  We received 167 entries in all! Those 500 word samples went under careful consideration by 11 judges and that panel narrowed the list down to 32…which are the ones that are pairing off in the ring over the course of eight weeks.

Note: The submissions can be an excerpt from a larger work...or a standalone piece of flash fiction. The only rules are that they be 500 words or less, and never previously published or posted on a blog. Although I'll never instruct someone how they should choose a winner, I would recommend considering this when doing so. It shouldn't be about how much information is contained in those 500 words, but the way a contestant goes about communicating the information that is.

These illustrious WRiTER’s are not only from all walks of life, but they also occupy various levels of the publication world. But none of that matters here, because inside this ring everybody stands as equals. You know why?  Because no one uses their real name…the only identification you’ll ever see is their pen name. This is not a popularity contest.  The focus here is on the writing, where it should be.

Today is the third of sixteen bouts, two bouts per week, with a new one posted every Monday and Thursday. The winners are decided by votes left in the comment section and anyone can vote. The voting for each fight will last for one full week, so you can vote for a Monday battle all the way until midnight on Sunday, and you can vote for a Thursday brawl up until midnight the following Wednesday.  And when you do vote, please let the contestants know what you liked and disliked.

Understand what’s going on now?  Good…then here we go!

Here are this bouts two randomly selected WRiTER's.

Standing in this corner, representing the New Adult Romantic Comedy genre and weighing in at 499 words, please welcome to the ring……..Sophie Grace.

I should have turned around and dashed out of the room the minute Maggie opened her mouth and announced, 'I dare you, Helena, to wear these black thigh highs and lace lingerie' with that voice. Now, standing in a basement of a shabby bar off 13th Avenue, my legs tittering on what felt like twelve-inch black stilettos, I debated my choices. I could walk away from this dare and prove to her that I was a prude-soon-to-be-the-owner-of-a-million-cats spinster, tossing my pride out the window in the process. Or I'd pull this through, show my best friend that I was not only brave, but also. . . . oh, who was I kidding! This wasn't me. Dressed like Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge. And I was about to serenade some guy in a bachelor party in front of dozen of eyes. A dozen male eyes.

Oh crap! There was no way I was--

"Helena!" Pete, Maggie's boyfriend and the bachelor party coordinator ducked his head around the door. "Climb on that swing, pronto. You're up in three, two--"

"Wait! I--I'm not ready."

"One!"

I hopped on the glittery swing, and gripped the ropes as it began to rise, leaving the wooden floor below. At the same time "Diamonds are a girl's best friend" blasted through the air.

Oh my God! Oh my God! I jerked my head up, slapping a hand on the mask fastened around my eyes to keep from seeing the ground disappearing fast. Nausea bubbled up my throat.

Oh no, not now! This would end up being more embarrassing than the time I locked myself out of my own house, left on the veranda with nothing but a pair of 'Hug-me. It's Monday' underwear.

Finally gathering the guts to peek through my fingers, my stomach churned as a ruby red velvet curtains parted and the swing started to drop. Silence reigned in one collection cloud of expectation. Then Whispers erupted, gasps filled the room, heads swung upward as I descended in all my lace glory.

My eyes moved wildly behind the mask as I searched for Maggie. The little witch sat next to the groom on a table on the front row, snapping pictures from a camera while giggling like a five year old in a candy shop. Fighting a scowl and the overwhelming panic I might topple face-down in my skyscraper heels, I took deep breaths readying myself for the dancing and flirting part like I'd practised in front of a mirror the last one month under Maggie's watchful eye. I was going to win this.

Then I saw him. Tall, dark and definitely pant-worthy, standing next to my other best friend, Abe. Oh, Mr Pant-worthy was my lure to perform this dance. Besides no one knew who was hidden behind this mask. That thought drove confidence in my body, straightening my spine. As soon as the swing slowed to a halt, I hopped off carefully, feeling the nerves melt away replaced by boldness.
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And in the other corner, representing the YA or Middle Grade genre with 500 words, let me introduce to you……….Dreamer.

Gillian lurched, then steadied herself against the side of the bridge, its ancient stones damp from loch mist. Setting down her bag, she stared up at the castle, letting the afternoon wind sting her face and have its way with her hair.

To return here, terrifying, but to stay away. . . worse. She needed help, and only Kinsman could give it. She hoped.

Hoisting her bag, she glanced over her shoulder at the rental car, then crossed to the high arched door.

She grasped the thick iron ring, and banged it sharply. The door swung in so quickly she barely had time to release the knocker.

Without a greeting, the steely-eyed Alva took her bag and closed the door behind her. The sound wasn't unlike that of a crypt being sealed, and it echoed into the dank air.

Again Gillian stood under the high ceiling, encircled by tapestries and larger-than-life portraits of her ancestors. Their stares remained as she remembered them, remote with a hint of malevolence.

“He's waiting for you.” Her back more hunched than three years ago, Alva stood at the bottom of the stairway leading to the second floor.

Gillian flinched. Where was her Scottish courage—the mettle Kinsman used to remind her was in her blood? The day she left, she’d said terrible things to him, hurtled down these stairs and outside, frantic to be gone. Now she’d returned. She needed him. Desperately.

She counted each step to the library. Its door stood open.

“May I come in?” Rotten start. He'd sense her nerves unraveling in a weak request like that.

Kinsman turned from the fire to face her. Eyes, as dark and shrewd as she remembered, confronted her.

She ran her tongue over her lips and swallowed. “Did you get my message?” Another feeble question. Now she'd wait for him to speak.

The clock's pendulum became the loudest sound in the room. Her pulse drummed at her temples. The fire burned steadily, but gave little warmth. She needed a drink. A Valium. Damn. She needed sleep.

Kinsman drew his chair closer to the fire and sat with his back to her. “Do you intend to stand at the door the rest of the evening?”

He'd asked her to sit with him. He would hear her out. Without hesitating, she took a seat and waited.

“Why have you come?”

“The dreams. They've returned. . .only this time they’re. . .deadly.”

The tension between them melted with her words. At last she’d told someone who understood. None of the expensive doctors who made pages of notes and prescribed medicines for depression or anxiety or whatever they thought caused her condition, knew what she meant when told them about The Dreams, dreams that made her embrace days and dread nights.

“Then it’s time for you to know,” he said and the shadows stirred around them.

Like long, dark fingers they clutched at her, and she reached for Kinsman’s hand. Her guardian. Her protector. But could he save her?
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Enjoying the words of two talented writers 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 of Bout #3.  Which one tickled your fancy?  After you vote please tell all of your friends to stop by and make a selection as well.  The voting for this round will remain open until noon Sunday.  Yes, it’s subjective, but so is the entire publishing world.  It’s as much about the readers as it is about the writers. 

Here in WRiTE CLUB, it’s not about the last man/woman standing -- it’s the audience that gets clobbered!

WRiTE CLUB 2014 – Bout #2

Welcome back!  If you’re like me, you’re ready for another highly competitive match between a pair of truly talented writers.  Since we’re still early in the competition, how about we bring any newbies in the audience up to speed and show them the ropes?

On May 3^rd we began taking submissions from WRiTER’s far and wide, spanning the globe, representing all ages and multiple styles of WRiTING.  We received 167 entries in all!  A new WRiTE CLUB record! Those 500 word samples went under careful consideration by 11 judges and that panel narrowed the list down to 32…which are the ones that are pairing off in the ring over the course of the next eight weeks.

These illustrious WRiTER’s are not only from all walks of life, but they also occupy various levels of the publication world.  I’m told by my wife that within our ranks we have everything from newbie bloggers to the recently published. But none of that matters today, because inside this ring everybody stands as equals. You know why?  Because the kicker is no one uses their real name…the only name you’ll ever see is their pen name. This is not a popularity contest.  The focus here is on the writing, where it should be.

Today is the second of sixteen bouts, two bouts per week, with a new one posted every Monday and Thursday. The winners are decided by votes left in the comment section and anyone can vote. The voting for each fight will last for one full week, so you can vote for a Monday battle all the way until midnight on Sunday, and you can vote for a Thursday brawl up until midnight the following Wednesday.  And when you do vote, please let the contestants know what you liked and disliked.

Understand what’s going on now?  Good…then here we go!

Here are bout two's randomly selected WRiTER's.

Standing in this corner, representing the YA Romance genre and weighing in at 412 words, please welcome to the ring……..NotAnna.

It’s all desperation. When she tries to look at him the way she’s supposed to. When she laughs with her friends. When she gets a new haircut just to see if anyone notices. It’s so thick you can rub it between your fingers. I can taste it on my lips when she kisses me.

She doesn’t do that very often, kiss me, but when she does, she does it right. Just pushes me up against the lockers when the hallways are deserted, pulls me into an empty classroom, drags me into the girls’ bathroom, and sets her lips on mine. The desperation helps then, because she’s trying not to think about it. It makes her stronger, faster, harder. Her hand clutches at my hair, her breath speeds up, and her eyes close. Like she doesn’t know who I am. Like that makes what we’re doing any better.

When she’s through with me, she just pushes away with a gusty exhalation that mixes anger and regret in equal parts. If we’re in the bathroom, she glances in the mirror, fixes her lip-stick, combs her long dark hair with her fingers, avoids my eyes. I always want to help her fix her hair, want to get that one strand she’s missing and feel her under my hands again. Today the feeling is stronger than ever, and as she straightens her cardigan and sticks her chin up like nothing just happened between us, I can feel my resolve crumbling. She’s not going to do anything.

I reach out, slowly, cautiously, until my hand is resting a few shivering centimeters above her back. I close my eyes for a second and go in for the kill, stroking her hair in a brief, awkward pat. She whirls around and glares at me.

“What the actual fuck?”

I tripped and fell against her hair. Or I have a disease that makes me want to touch hair. It’s like kleptomania. Maybe I want to know what shampoo she uses. It’s definitely not because-

“I love you.”

She shakes her head, shakes it hard. “No, you don’t. You can’t.”

I take a step back. “Maria.” My hands are out in front of me in a gesture my English teacher says is defensive, supplicating, showing inferiority.

She grabs her purse. “I can’t, Jamie. Okay? I can’t.” Her hair whips my face as she turns and sprints out the bathroom, and this time it’s my desperation hanging thick in the air.

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And in the other corner, representing the YA Contemporary Re imagining genre with 495 words, let me introduce to you……….Swick

My favorite sound in the whole world is the swick of an arrow finding its target. It's like a powerful secret. And my arrows totally have secrets.

From a high branch in our neighbors’ oak, I close my left eye and aim at a groove between two roof tiles. The air is heady with Manzanita blossoms, but I block out the tickly scent, ignoring everything but that crevice. With a deep breath, I draw back my bowstring.

Swick!

A sturdy rope slices through the floodlights like star-smoke. When it buries itself in our roof, I press a button on my bow and the arrowhead splits into a claw-like anchor. I test the rope, and triple check the end wrapped around this tree. My lips curl as I hook my sling to the line.

Then I fly over the yard like a human arrow.

I hoist myself onto the third-story ledge and watch the rope zip back to the neighbors’ tree. Gritting my teeth, I raise my window, praying it doesn’t squeak. The last thing I need is to get busted. Again.

The frame whispers up. I exhale a long breath, slink inside, and collapse on my bed.

The light snaps on.                      

¡Mierda!

"Do you like being grounded?"

Mom folds her arms and leans into the doorframe. Her glare is more intimidating when she's in one of her power suits, staring down Congress. To me, she's not Florence Nottingham, anti-immigration lobbyist. She’s just Mom: no makeup on her fair skin, ratty old Stanford sweatshirt, ash-blonde hair in a messy it’s-the-middle-of-the-night-and-I'm-stalking-my-teenager ponytail. She's got nothing on the creepers who crossed my path tonight.

Too bad I can't explain that to her.

I groan into my pillow. "Dios, can we do this in the morning?"

"Where were you?"

Yeah, she will totally freak if I answer that.

"What's my sentence? Two weeks? A month?" I slap my phone into her open palm and flop back on my bed. Tomorrow’s the first day of school. That requires at least an hour of sleep.

Two. Two hours would be sweet.

Mom throws her hands up. “I just grounded you for your little stunt this summer.”

She has a point. Last spring, I maybe, sort of, took advantage of Mom’s tendency to sign permission slips without reading them. The “summer mission trip” she signed off on was actually two months in a rural village just south of Tijuana. I left out the Mexico part until I texted her as our bus passed border security.

As a general principle, my mother is not a fan of Mexico.

She taps her slippered foot on the hardwood. "Where were you, Robyn?"

Robyn. A tiny flame flickers in my gut whenever she calls me that. My first name is Dalia. I've only gone by my middle name since Papi died. Not my choice.

I skirt my eyes away from Mom’s determined stare. She's not usually this invested in lecturing me.

"Who's the boy? Will Scarlet?"

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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 of Bout #2.  Which one tickled your fancy?  After you vote please tell all of your friends to stop by and make a selection as well.  The voting for this round will remain open until noon Sunday.  Yes, it’s subjective, but so is the entire publishing world.  It’s as much about the readers as it is about the writers. 

Here in WRiTE CLUB, it’s not about the last man/woman standing -- it’s the audience that gets clobbered!