*** UPDATE ***
The genre for yesterdays Groovy Girl submission was mistakenly reported and is actually Upmarket Speculative. This was corrected at 1:30. If any of the 29 people who voted prior to that time would like to change their vote based on this info please email us at WRITECLUB2018@GMAIL.COM
Welcome back to WRiTE CLUB 2018. Today we bring you a fresh pair of contestants ready to dazzle you with their prose. For those of you who might have just stumbled in, let me give you a run-down of what is going on here.
Weeks ago the submission window opened for this year's contest where we asked anybody wishing to participate to submit a 500-word writing sample – using a pen name. The sample can be from any genre, flash fiction or something from a larger piece of work, basically, anything goes except that it cannot have been previously published or posted on the internet. All of the rules regarding how to submit can be found here. After the submission period closed, we had fifteen judges (we call them our slush pile readers) read all 181 submissions from 132 writers and once all the ballots were total we narrowed the 181 down to the 30 that will be stepping into the ring over the course of the next three weeks. Today is the first of those bouts.
How this works – two anonymous (pen name only) writing samples step into the ring. Visitors to this blog (that’s you) read both entries and vote for the one that resonates the most with you. We ask that you leave a brief critique for both writers with your vote because that is one of the real values of this contest – FEEDBACK. Please be respectful with your remarks!
Even though there will be a different bout every day (M-F), the voting for each bout will remain open for seven days from the date it is posted to give as many people as possible to have a say. The voting for today’s bout will close on Monday, April 23rd (noon central time).
It’s that simple. The piece that garnishes the most votes moves on to the next round where they’ll face a different opponent. Using a tournament style format, the 30 contestants will be whittled down to just 2, and the winner of that final bout will be announced at the DFW Writers Conference in Hurst TX June 9-10. You can follow along with all of the bout results right HERE.
In case of a tie, I’m the deciding vote. I can do that because, like all of you, I do not know the real names of our contestants either (my wife processes all the submissions).
Oh yeah – for every bout that you vote in, your name (see rule #2 below) will be placed into a hat for a chance for a $40 Barnes & Noble Gift card that will be drawn after the contest concludes.
A few rules –
1) One vote per visitor per bout.
2) 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 result in 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!
That’s enough jibber-jabber…like the man say’s –
In the far corner, we have Jakkym representing the Adult Fantasy genre.
Ulmer dipped his bloody hands into the wash basin. Red, oily tendrils spread into the water briefly before diluting into a pink clouds. He made sure to go in all the way to the elbows. Small specks of blood dotted the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, much to his annoyance. Meticulousness was a trait Ulmer prided himself in, it’s what made him a good surgeon. Still, no matter what apron he wore or how careful he was, blood always got on his clothes. It seemed that war was a dirty business for all parties involved.
The corpse on the wooden operating table next to him flinched as he was working some soap into his fingernails. Ulmer paused a moment to regard the dead man from the corner of his eye. Such things weren’t uncommon in the newly deceased, so the battlefield surgeon prudently resumed his task. Many of his peers chastised his thoroughness, saying that he wasted too much time while people were dying on other tables. He’d stopped trying to explain his theory about sanitation and infection rates long ago.
His hands abruptly began to shake as he reached for a nearby towel. The tremors were becoming more frequent and he was afraid they would start impacting his abilities as a surgeon. He wondered how long he could hide his weakness from his colleagues, who were looking for reasons beyond his odd personality to be rid of him. Ulmer often wished he was more diplomatic so he wouldn’t have to rely so much on raw talent in order to succeed.
He was still brooding when he toweled off and turned around to find the corpse sitting up. A high-pitched yelp escaped his mouth, and he nearly jumped out of his skin with fright. There was no doubt in his mind that this man was dead —having had the misfortune of being impaled by a Varatu spear. Thrown at nearly point-blank range, it had pierced not only his wooden shield, but the arm behind it, and the torso behind that. Through and through, as they say. When Ulmer first saw him lying on his side in the triage tent he thought someone must have been playing a trick on him. The spear had missed every vital organ as far as he could tell, but had unfortunately severed an artery. All Ulmer could do for the poor fellow was reassure him as he bled out.
The corpse spoke, first taking a breath that seemed for that purpose alone, “It always feels so heavy…” It brought its hands up close to its face, inspecting them. They were alone in the tent as Ulmer was always the last to leave for any meal (especially lunch), since he found it to be more bothersome than beneficial. Other tables stood in neat rows, each one bearing a mangled body that had been beyond saving. Despite all of this, the young surgeon stood in amazement —his curiosity as a physician outweighing his panic.
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And in the near corner, we have Quinxun representing the ??? genre.
Shrouded by the moonless night and his black robe, Zhou Haoran crouched on the slate-topped outer wall and watched Sun Jiechu -- his best friend, his sworn brother, the man he had promised to kill. Below, in the courtyard that unfolded between the men, two red paper lanterns cast ephemeral halos across the surface of the compound’s central pond. From opposite ends of the garden rose two sets of grand, double doors. Had Haoran come under any other circumstances, Jiechu would throw those doors open for him like welcoming arms. Now, they lay barred from within.
On the far side of the house, all the windows to Jiechu's study were shut save one, as if an invitation to come in out of the summer heat and join him in the brightly lit room. Haoran could use his lightness skill to glide down from the wall, cross the manicured garden, and have a seat in the finely-crafted oak chair across from his white-haired friend, who would smile at him like the sun itself. The time that amassed between them would fall away, and the dawn would find the two still laughing over tea.
During the decades since they'd last seen each other, Haoran had traversed the breadth of the Ming empire, slaying his martial brothers -- everyone who had studied Fierce Mantis Style. Jiechu had used that time to grow prosperous enough to own the manor he now sat in, but it was not grandiose -- Haoran could no more imagine Jiechu being ostentatious than he could imagine the sun rising in the west. But his old friend had paid attention to the details : the outer walls of manor’s two main halls were decorated with carved stone, and wooden lattice protected the interior paper windows. That kind of craftsmanship took money. Could Jiechu have gone soft?
No, Haoran would be a fool to think Jiechu an easy kill. In the old days, Jiechu’s skill mathed their master's, Old Mantis. But in virtue and kindness, Haoran reflected, Jiechu had no equal. Murdering such a hero would be a transgression against the world, but a vow to one's deceased master held more power than any other bond, and Haoran had spent a lifetime fulfilling this promise. When Haoran had given his word to Old Mantis, he knew this day would come. He'd put it off too long. Now all that remained was to find a suitable opportunity.
Below, a small servant girl, perhaps fifteen, approached Jiechu. Her black hair hung in a smooth braid down her back, and she had the ruddy cheeks and wide face of a Tibetan. Haoran watched the girl give Jiechu a comically deep bow. Jiechu grinned with pure joy, and his ease might have enabled Haoran to catch him off guard once the girl left, except that she had turned to face the courtyard, and her gaze was wandering up in Haoran's direction.
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Leave your votes and critiques in the comments below. Again, be respectful of your remarks and try to point positives as well as detractions.
We’ll be back tomorrow with another bout. See you then.
