WRiTE CLUB 2019 - Preliminaries - Round #3

Before we get started, I wanted to address the issue a few readers are having with not being able to post comments, or having those comments show up as UNKNOWN even though they have a Google Account.  There are several things at play here. First, if you are using the Safari Browser it has a known problem with Blogger and you have two choices. Switch to Firefox as a browser (I've never had a problem using it), or change the setting on Safari as illustrated below.

The other problem is Blogger not recognizing you when adding a comment and therefore designating you as UNKNOWN. This could happen if the reader is a Blogger user themselves and they have not changed their settings since Google + went away.  To do this follow these steps:

Go to Blogger dashboard.
SETTINGS
USER SETTINGS
Set User Profile = Blogger (instead of Google +)
Save
Hopefully, that will resolve everyone's issues and let the votes/comments reach our contestants. If you missed the first two bouts because of one of these issues, remember the bouts remain LIVE for a week so you can still go back and let your choice be known.

Now that we have that taken care, it's back to business. 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 off to go head-to-head in daily “bouts”, with the winner of each match determined by you the reader—by voting for your favorites. Bout winners keep advancing until there are only two remaining and that’s when a panel of celebrity judges, who include well know authors, agents, editors, and other publishing folks, choose the ultimate champion.

Even though the contest is sponsored by DFW, anyone can vote (as long as you have a Google sign-in or verifiable email address), and when you do, we encourage you to leave a mini-critique for both writers. Oh, I forgot to mention that the voters can win a $60 Barnes and Noble prize. Each time you vote in a bout your name will be placed into a hat and at the end of the contest, one name will be selected to receive the prize.

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 Tuesday, May 7th (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 to spread the word about the contest to get more people to vote, just not for a specific writer!
4) Although not really a rule, it is suggested that you cast your own vote BEFORE you read the comments by other voters. Don't let yourself be swayed by other opinions.

That’s enough of the fine print…like the man says –

On one side of the ring stands Griff N. Dorr representing the Sci-Fi genre.

In the confusion of last night's escape, Mida hadn't really gotten a good look at the house, but eventually she found the stairs and headed down them. Faint sounds drew her around the corner to a narrow, cluttered kitchen.

Inside was an old man with wispy hair dyed in half a dozen colors. He lifted a ladle with a hand made of metal and wires, and stirred what smelled like some kind of bean soup. Mida's stomach growled.

The noise must have given her away, because the old man addressed her without looking up. "If you're going to sleep through breakfast, don't complain that you're hungry before lunch."

Mida tried not to look at the myriad fruits and vegetables piled on the counter. She was a stranger here; she had no right to ask for anything.

"I'm fine," she lied. "Is that woman ... er, Cipher here somewhere?"

"She'll be back." The old man finally turned, appraising her. He must have seen someone worth taking pity on, because he grabbed a green and red fruit and tossed it to her. "So you're the new kid. Mida, right? They call me Bitz. Don't bother asking why."

Mida bit the unfamiliar fruit, only to spit it out in disgust a moment latter. It tasted like pepper.

Bitz chuckled and handed her a paring knife. "Never had a mango before?"

"How does everybody know who I am?" Mida wondered, slicing open the mango. The fruit inside was orange, sticky, and much tastier than the peel.

Bitz shook his head. "A name, a face; that's not knowing someone. You want to know who a person is, you've got to see them at their worst. They gonna run, or fight? They gonna stand for something, or they all about what's in it for them?"

She wanted to ask Bitz which kind of person he was, but she had several far more urgent questions. For example, "Why did you let us in?"

There was no reason for Bitz to know the answer; he hadn't been there when Mida pounded on the strangely marked door last night. But Cipher must have filled him in.

"You mean what does Aegis want with you? Beats the heck outta me. I keep telling Cipher, one day her imaginary friend is gonna get someone killed."

Mida suppressed a sigh. "So you haven't met him either."

"No one's met Aegis. He, she, it, they—all speculation. Save me the pit," he added. "I'm growing them on the roof."

It occurred to Mida that Bitz was a lot like the mango in her hand. Bitter on the outside, but much more pleasant when you got past the surface.

She leaned forward. "So, why do they call you Bitz?"

The old man loomed suddenly, clacking the fingers of his prosthetic hand beneath her nose. With that crazy hair, he reminded her of a mad scientist. 

"Because," he said ominously, a twinkle in his eye, "that's all they ever found of my arm."

 #############################################################################

On the far side of the ring we have  Galadhon who is representing the Ghost Story genre.

The ghost appeared in the doorway.

I saw her from my cot, and thought it was Alice, in a Victorian dress of her grandmother’s, or some such fool thing. But Alice is no fool, and she has no business in Vimy field hospital anyway.

Five other cots in this tent, all occupied. But this was in the still, cold hour before dawn, and the other men slept, wounds buried beneath prickly wool. I’d also been asleep, and dreaming of Alice, on an icy winter morning at the skating rink in Westmount Park. I was showing off, recreating some of my best weaves and dodges from last season’s hockey matches, and in my cot I tried to turn, and the searing pain in my leg jolted me awake.

I was afraid I’d cried out, and kept motionless, as if evading a sniper, until I’d worked out the snores from the other beds and could be certain that, even if I had overreacted, no one had heard me.

There were no sounds from beyond the tent except the distant thud of gunfire. The guns are always there. You breathe, your blood flows; and you breathe in the stench of the dead and your blood throbs with the rattle of the machine guns. Until a shot stops your blood, and your body becomes the stink in another man’s nostrils.

The pain was no less. I grunted, shifted my hips, rolled my shoulders. Did everything I could, short of wrenching my leg out of traction and clawing the dressings off with my ragged nails.

I opened my eyes, and that’s when I saw the ghost.

She was whiter than the grimy tent walls. The door flap was ajar, and she was poised with the darkness behind her and the flicker of our single lantern sending gold threads along the front of her high-collared dress. Yet neither black nor gold disturbed her essential paleness, which made of dress and skin one form. Like a figure carved from meerschaum, she was. Her arms hung low and she clasped her hands under her belly. Her limbs might have been embroidery on the dress, and its long skirts might have as easily been part of the shape of her legs.

All this I grasped in one swift instant, as my artist’s mind sought ways to make real and plausible what must otherwise be an impossible, fiendish spectre.

She looked me in the eye, and though hers were black pits open onto nothing, still I thought I saw a gleam there, as of an inferno in a corner of Hell, and I swept up my glass and flung the last of my water at her.

But she was two cot-lengths away, and even if a drop had reached her, she would not melt like meerschaum. The thought that the water might pass through her, provide physical proof that she was indeed a spectre, made me cry out again. One squawk, before I clamped my teeth into my lower lip.

 ##############################################################################

Leave your votes and critiques in the comments below. Again, be respectful of your remarks and try to point out positives as well as detractions.

We’ll be back tomorrow with bout #4. Please help all our writers out by telling everyone you know what is happening here and encourage them to come vote.

This is WRiTE CLUB—the contest where the audience gets clobbered!

WRiTE CLUB 2019 - Preliminaries - Round #2

This year's contest is off to an exhilarating start and I'm happy to keep the ball rolling.

Here's a recap in case the contest has 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 off to go head-to-head in daily “bouts”, with the winner of each match determined by you the reader—by voting for your favorites. Bout winners keep advancing until there are only two remaining and that’s when a panel of celebrity judges, who include well know authors, agents, editors, and other publishing folks, choose the ultimate champion.

Even though the contest is sponsored by DFW, anyone can vote (as long as you have a Google sign-in or verifiable email address), and when you do, we encourage you to leave a mini-critique for both writers. Oh, I forgot to mention that the voters can win a $60 Barnes and Noble prize. Each time you vote in a bout your name will be placed into a hat and at the end of the contest, one name will be selected to receive the prize.

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 Monday, May 6th (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 to spread the word about the contest to get more people to vote, just not for a specific writer!
4) This is more of a suggestion than a rule - but cast your vote before you read other voter comments. Don't let yourself be swayed by the opinion of others.

That’s enough of the fine print…like the man says –

On one side of the ring stands Apollo Catspolis representing the Literary genre.

I let the phone ring on and on, buzzing nonstop. “Mom” glared up at me in big letters. Damn she always had the worst timing. I couldn’t answer the phone, not right then, in my car, still parked outside Olive Garden, my hands trembling. The post-fight adrenaline still rioted in my blood. My thumb hovered over the lock button. No, I wouldn’t send Mom to voicemail. That would be too heartless, even for me, the “fucking piece of shit asshole.” (Harper’s words, not Mom’s.)

Maybe those would be the last five words she’d ever say to me. Wouldn’t that be a poetic way to end things? Is that what she would tell our kid? Or would she lie? Build me up in their mind so they could be proud of the dad who wouldn’t be there for their first day of kindergarten. “Your dad? No, he was a nice guy. Just didn’t have the space in his heart for us.”

I leaned my forehead onto the steering wheel, sighing. Harper would lie about me, no matter how many times she’d screamed, “I hate you,” drawing the attention of the whole damn pop-song version of an Italian restaurant. Harper would lie because she was good like that. Not like me.

Had that been my fault, though? She’d sprung it on me without any warning at all. We’d been watching Steven Universe on the couch at my house, and I’d fallen asleep, head in her lap. I’d woken up to the soft trails of her fingers combing through my hair. She gave me this look, television lighting up her face, and said, “You want to get something to eat?” I’d been craving chicken alfredo, so I said, “sure.”

I wouldn’t have suggested Olive Garden if I’d known.

What had she been expecting? No, I knew. Harper who always secretly recorded me with her “vintage” camcorder or shoved the thing into my hands and asked me to “get the shot” of her doing something fairy-like. “Tell me a story,” she would always say when we lay in bed together at night, unable to sleep. I would tell her a fairytale full of romance because that’s what she wanted: a dream.

In Harper’s version of that dinner, I would have gasped in surprise. She would have wanted to watch a huge grin break out on my face, shiny and bright like the moon. Would have wanted me to take her hands, look in her eyes, and tell her, “You are amazing. You will be the best mother to your child, and I will be there to help you raise her.” Because Harper would have wanted a little girl to doll up.

Instead, she’d been spinning noodles around on her fork, looking dazed mostly. The screech of her fork had been grinding on my nerves with every little twirl. I had a noodle halfway in my mouth when she muttered, “I’m pregnant,” under her breath.

 #############################################################################

On the far side of the ring, we have Word Slinger who is representing the Contemporary genre.

I dreamt of a life that didn’t include my self-centered, narcissistic older sister.

“Asmah, you have exactly five minutes then I’m leaving without you.” Khadijah yelled from downstairs.  “I assumed nerds like you didn’t care about their appearance.”

I clenched my fist but ignored her taunt, for now. One last glance at my reflection then I’d be ready; my dark washed Levis matched with a light grey tissue tee that hung almost to my mid-thigh. I wore my favorite hijab: a large, rectangular cotton one, big enough to wrap around my head twice.

I grabbed my back pack and bolted from my bedroom, my lavender sanctuary.

“Are you finally ready?” Khadijah stood, six years older than me, with her hands planted on her hips.

My eyes bulged but I held back the curse words lodged in my throat. “If you hadn’t taken forever in the bathroom, I wouldn’t be late to my last day of classes.” After finals next week, I’d finally be a high school senior.

“Now it’s my fault?” she screeched.

 “Look, I didn’t ask you to take me to school, Ma did.” I grabbed my navy blue Vans from the mat by the door and slipped them on.

“Both you and Ma need to understand, if Khalif proposes, then my days of chauffeuring you around are numbered. Ma and I are invited to lunch today with him and his mom. So today could be the day. I don’t have time for this.”

Her life would be defined by marriage; one pushed by our mother. I rolled my eyes as I slammed her car door shut. She glared out the window as she drove with Vivaldi playing in the background; the classical music, her potential mother-in-law’s favorite.

Khalif, her wealthy suitor, had become her only topic of conversation. He hadn’t even popped the question yet she acted like the wedding was tomorrow. The price you paid for being beautiful. We had been close when I was younger but the moment she got to high school and understood the power her looks gave her, our relationship suffered a direct hit.

Mom rejoiced in her oldest daughter’s beauty. I’d kill for her blemish-free skin and slender figure. Mom bragged to all the women at the mosque that Khadijah had graduated culinary school and now could prepare lavish feasts for her future husband and his family. She was on cloud nine that her eldest daughter had caught the eye of a rich attorney from a prominent Muslim family.

But I yearned for a different life; a career in the law like my dad.

To Mom, it didn’t matter I was in the running for next year’s valedictorian. I resisted my mom’s suggestions to think about what qualities were important for me in a husband. And once my sister married, I became the next target.

I could never compete with Khadijah, the Perfect, so I gave up and focused on school to fulfill my dreams not my mother’s delusions. 

##############################################################################

Leave your votes and critiques in the comments below. Again, be respectful of your remarks and try to point out positives as well as detractions.

We’ll be back tomorrow with bout #3. Please help all our writers out by telling everyone you know what is happening here and encourage them to come vote.

This is WRiTE CLUB—the contest where the audience gets clobbered!

WRiTE CLUB 2019 – Preliminaries - Round #1

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 and from the one hundred eighty-nine submissions received, we have selected thirty to step into the ring against one another over the course of the next eight weeks. To say it was a tight race would be a massive understatement! Out of the one hundred and eighty-nine submissions, one hundred and sixty-eight entries received votes! No submission received over thirteen votes from our Slush readers.

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 off to go head-to-head in daily “bouts”, with the winner of each match determined by you the reader—by voting for your favorites. Bout winners keep advancing until there are only two remaining and that’s when a panel of celebrity judges, who include well know authors, agents, editors, and other publishing folks, choose the ultimate champion.

Even though the contest is sponsored by DFW, anyone can vote (as long as you have a Google sign-in or verifiable email address), and when you do, we encourage you to leave a mini-critique for both writers. Oh, I forgot to mention that the voters can win a $60 Barnes and Noble prize. Each time you vote in a bout your name will be placed into a hat and at the end of the contest, one name will be selected to receive the prize.

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 to spread the word about the contest to get more people to vote, just not for a specific writer!

That’s enough of the fine print…like the man says –

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.

Some of the time, he’s sleeping. Curled up in a folded corner of membrane, occasionally sighing deeply, pulling a twist of brain over his furry belly like a blanket. Those are the times I start to think that maybe he’s not so bad, my friend the howler monkey. I still know he’s there, but if he’ll only stay asleep, maybe I don’t mind renting him a corner of my mind.

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 ishYouNotishMe who is representing the Horror genre.

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 as well as detractions.

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.

This is WRiTE CLUB—the contest where the audience gets clobbered!

WRiTE CLUB 2019 - Submission Period is Closed

The submission window for this year's WRiTE CLUB closed at midnight last night and we ended up with a record-breaking 189 entries from 137 writers!  We received writing samples from writers around the globe that represent 40+ different genres and sub-genres.

How about those marbles!

Now our slush pile readers have the unenviable (or maybe it is enviable) task of narrowing that list down to just 30  -  30 who will eventually make their way into our ring to battle for the opportunity to become the 2019 WRiTE CLUB champion and a free invitation to the 2020 DFW Writers Conference.

The first bout arrives on April 29th.  Mark your calendar!