We’ve been building towards this moment for several
weeks and now here we are - the inaugural WRiTE
CLUB 2019 bout. The votes from our slush pile readers have been tallied
In case it escaped your notice before now, WRiTE CLUB (sponsored by the DFW Conference)
is tournament-style contest that runs during the eight weeks prior to the
conference and it provides writers the opportunity to compete against one
another for a chance to win free admission to next year’s conference (along
with other prizes). Here’s the kicker—it’s
all done anonymously. Writers have submitted 500-word writing samples under
pen names. The chosen (pre-decided by a group of twenty slush pile readers) are
paired
Even though the contest is sponsored be placed be selected
How this works—two anonymous (pen name only) writing
samples are waiting in the ring below. Visitors to this blog (that’s you) should
read both entries and then vote by leaving a comment for the one that resonates
with you the most. We also 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
I post it to give as many people as possible to have a say. Voting for today’s bout will close on
Sunday, May 5th (noon central time). To help keep up with which bouts are
open, you can follow along on the WRiTE CLUB Scoreboard updated right HERE.
It’s that simple. The writing piece that garnishes the
most votes will move on to the next round where they’ll face a different
opponent. 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).
A few more 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 cause that contestant's
immediate disqualification. It’s perfectly okay, in fact, it is encouraged
That’s enough of the fine print…
On one side of the ring stands Blue Bonnet representing the Short Story genre.
After
33 years of a howler monkey living inside my head, I am used to it.
Then
I do something crazy, like leave the house. At the first whiff of pollen and
car exhaust, the monkey is alert. “What’s this?” his beady eyes ask, his head
tilted slightly. “Have you forgotten our agreement?”
I
haven’t forgotten, but nor do I want to remember. I ignore him and stride
bravely on. I make it all the way to the grocery store down the block before
the monkey knows what’s hit him.
He’s
on his feet as the automatic doors whoosh in front of me, artificial air
blowing my hair back and knocking me slightly off balance.
“Aaooo ,” he whispers slightly, gearing
up, one foot stamping impatiently. “Aaooo .”
“I’m
not listening,” I reply, and grab five of those handy wipes to clean the cart.
“Aaooo ,” he continues, more insistently, as
I narrowly avoid colliding with a small child who has escaped his mother.
“I
have to eat,” I plead, willing him to be quiet.
“I’m
so sorry,” says the mother, grabbing the boy’s grubby hand and trying to pull
him away. The boy won’t budge.
“What’s
on your face?” he asks, pointing.
“AAOOOO,” screams the monkey.
The
mother pulls harder on the boy, jerking his arm and whispering stridently in
his ear.
“AAOOO! AAOOO!” The monkey is on all fours now, and his face holds no trace
of friendliness. I hate it when he gets like this. He’s just one step away from
full chaos. My stomach rumbles.
I
urgently push the cart to the produce section, throwing fruit in my cart with
abandon. I put my head down and speed walk down the next aisle. Peanut butter -
10 jars. Refried beans - 5 cans. Anything with a long shelf life.
The
checkout line looms.
“AAOOO! AAOOO! AAOOO!” The monkey
is screaming so loud my ears ring. He begins to jump up and down on all fours,
landing each time with a thud that rattles my teeth. I let my hair fall in
front of my face, trying to spy the conveyor belt through the wispy strands.
“Good
morning!” chirps the cashier.
“AAOOO! AAOOO! AAOOO! AAOOO! AAOOO!”
“You
must love peanut butter! What are you going to do with all this?”
I
look up briefly. Fear flickers across the cashier’s face, quickly replaced with
feigned nonchalance. He says something else, but I can’t hear him. All I can
hear is the monkey. Always the monkey.
I
run, abandoning my cart.
Once
home, I try not to let the monkey see my tears.
#############################################################################
On the far side of the ring we have
I died long before the woods behind my house even existed,
but I’ll never forget the relief that washed over me when my assignment came
in. To this day, I don’t know how I landed a poltergeist gig, but you don’t
question good fortune.
For generations, geisting was my sole purpose. Throwing
stuff, stomping about in middle of night, and shrieking through the halls
delighted me like a field of butterflies delights a toddler. Nothing compared
to scaring teenagers, though. After teens lose their ability to see the unreal,
their creativity evaporates. Actually, frightening them is a service. Two even
became novelists when they grew up. Without me, their imaginations would have
atrophied like an unused limb. But I’m no monster. I never bother little kids.
Sure, I’ll float blocks or books around, maybe make a teddy bear dance, but
nothing bad. Besides, littles love me. I don’t know why, but they always have.
Do you know how hard it is to terrify someone who adores you? Same with pets.
Cats never hiss when I come into the room and dogs follow me around like-- well,
like puppies.
The Kings were nothing like my previous
families. The mother was a scrap of old fabric in the breeze. I could tell she
used to be a force of nature, but now, it took everything she had not to
crumble to dust and blow away. The twins were unnaturally quiet and helpful.
Instead of running through the old farmhouse, shouting and claiming bedrooms
like every kid before them, they carried boxes and stacked them evenly in the
appropriate rooms. Their silent diligence creeped me out; this was not typical
seven-year-old behavior. Their grey eyes held the shadows of countless storms,
and I wondered what made them this way. Then, the father came in.
“Hurry up ! The truck needs to be back in an
hour and it’s still half full,” the barrel-chested man shouted. A cigarette
dangled from the left corner of his mouth, and the only thing he carried was a
sweating beer can. “If either of you breaks anything, you’ll both pay for it
with your asses.”
“Yes, sir,” the twins chimed in unison. Dark
fear shimmered around them, like a mirage on a street. I know that shimmer, I
pull it from the living all the time. But the living aren’t supposed to pull it
from each other.
The mother, small and deflated, threw open the
drapes and pretended she was alone. Her fear-shimmer was even darker than her
children’s.
Long-forgotten energy bubbled around me and a
lightbulb exploded in the hallway. There isn’t much to be angry about when
you’re not living, but this brute, threatening his kids and terrifying his wife,
reminded me that anger and I go way back.
I tore the cigarette from his mouth and
pressed it into his arm. Geisting isn’t my only purpose anymore. I will protect
these kids-- even if I have to kill their father to do it.
##############################################################################
Leave your votes and critiques in the comments below. Again, be respectful of your remarks and try to point out positives
We’ll be back tomorrow
with bout #2. Please help all our writers out by telling everyone you know
what is happening here and encourage them to come vote.
