WRiTE CLUB 2021 - Preliminary Bout #6

We kick off the second week of WRiTE CLUB bouts by congratulating our first bout winner - Fern Calloway. They will now move on to the next round. 

Remember, the voting for each bout remains open for an entire week, so if you missed one or two you can always go back and catch up.

Here's a reminder of what is happening. WRiTE CLUB (sponsored by Wild Lark Books) is a tournament-style contest that will run for nine weeks (which includes a week break for the holidays). It provides writers the opportunity to compete against one another for a chance to win a free publication package (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 (decided by a group of twelve 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.

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, the voters can win a $50 Wild Lark Books gift card. 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 Sun Dec 18th (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. What is okay, in fact, encouraged, is 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…here we go!

On one side of the ring stands Blueface representing the Science Fiction genre.

CHAPTER ONE

“Stay away from Old Town,” called Kirsten’s mom after her.

“Yes, mom,” she said, heading for Old Town.

Out past the far corner of their ranch, up by the Blasted Oak, she walked Old Town’s perimeter for the first time this year. The tall steel bulwarks were all intact, to her usual disappointment, and the ‘Unexploded Bombs, Keep Out’ signs had been recently renewed.  She squinted through thin gaps between the panels: no change inside, either. 

“It’s all craters, how can there be anything left to explode?” she had often asked her mother, but her mother would only frown and threaten her with grounding.

Kirsten turned for home; there was nothing new here. She passed the Blasted Oak - admiring, as always, its determination to survive.  When the Military blew up the town, this ancient tree’s branches were ripped away; all but one twisty branch. Now it was only a small sprinkle of green in a dead landscape. She saluted it and continued on; but then felt a strong impulse to look back. The oak looked improbably lush from here, surrounded by a large green haze.  Puzzled, Kirsten walked back towards the tree, but the impression faded like mist as she approached. An optical illusion, no doubt: hurricane-season was imminent, and did curious things to the light.

For several days Kirsten revisited it, quite certain the haze was thickening into branching shapes; yet it always dissipated. On the fourth day the winds began, and the twisty branch rocked and whipped. As Kirsten watched with interest, she realised there was an identical second twisty branch behind the first, this one quite still and far more leafy. Disconcerted, and with the first vicious raindrops amongst the winds, she ran home, arriving just as the rain set in.

She told her mother about the haze and the twisty branch, hoping for answers.  Her mother’s expression was inscrutable.

“What did I say? There’s poison at Old Town and it’s making you hallucinate.  Stay away.” 

Kirsten was confused by this new information. “They blew up…poison? What?”

Her mother stared, then snapped “You’re grounded for a week. Go wash for lunch. Now.”  As Kirsten stomped up the stairs, her mother picked up the phone, frowning.

A week of heavy winds and rain kept them both close to the house, but eventually supplies were low.  

“Stay away from Old Town. And the tree,” said her mom as she drove off. 

“Yes, mom,” said Kirsten.

The tree was now a majestic beauty in sunlight, surrounded by meadow for 20 yards all around in a perfect circle. As Kirsten studied it, from the muddy path in the wind and rain, she thought her mother must be right. Hallucinations. She backed away, intending to return home, but then a linen-clad girl stepped from nowhere into the meadow and looked at Kirsten in surprise, coming close and peering at her. She looked oddly familiar.

“What’s your name?” asked Kirsten, in rising alarm.

“Kirsten,” said the girl. “What’s yours?”

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

On the far side of the ring, we have Almach Nightmare who represents the Satire genre.

A Tender Moment

Julia was sitting at the base of one of my favorite hiking trails. She loves hiking, and that day she’d worked up a light sweat that gave her skin a little shine. The setting sun cast her in amber; her lopsided smile and flowing hair glowed in that one perfect moment of light.    

When she was in Rome she tossed a coin into the Trevi Fountain wishing for love but told her family that she only did it because it was tradition. That vacation was the first and last time she ever left her hometown. She still calls herself a world traveler though, and dreams of visiting other countries.

Her eyes have a little green mixed in the light brown. When she wears mascara and a little eyeliner they seem to sparkle with an ethereal glow. It’s as if she could look into my eyes and see every thought laid out like pages from her favorite glamor magazines.

She like to dress casually—jeans and colorful blouses—but she’s not afraid to show off her knowledge of fashion when the occasion calls for it. Long flowing dresses, slit high to the hip, low slung necklines showing almost too much skin. The look says classy and sexy at once.

I imagine she’d be the talk of the night if we ever showed up at one of my work parties dressed like that. Her arm around mine as we made small talk with my colleagues. Steve and Carlos giving me the silent bro nod of approval. Dancing and sipping chardonnay ‘til the early hours before walking home hand in hand, her high heeled shoes slung over my shoulder.

When we get home she’d look into my eyes and without saying a word know how much I appreciated her in my life. We’d kiss and make love and when the first light of the sunrise comes through my bedroom window her eyes would still be on mine, those little green specks glittering in the sun like tiny emeralds.

Later that day she’d convince me to do a quick hike up Little Turtle trail to help exorcise the demon spirits we consumed the night before. While we hike, we’d talk over plans for our vacation next October. She’ll push for Spain and I’ll argue Thailand. By the time we get home we’ll have decided on Cyprus.

The thought of the sundown casting her in that same amber glow as we looked out over the Mediterranean is everything. Her hand in mine as we talked about how great the food is and how welcoming the locals are. I’d lean over and kiss that lopsided smile of hers and she would kiss me back. Before she notices, I’m on one knee, proposing with my grandmother’s ring.

Julia loves cats. She has three of them.

I’m allergic to cats. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted. Swipe left.

Monique has the cutest little dimples when she smiles and damn her body is… 

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

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.

Before we sign off, 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 or Chrome browsers they have 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.

Finally, in order to keep this contest going AND GROWING, I'm asking folks to donate to the cause on my Ko-fi account. Let me assure you, 100% of the donations will go towards the contest prizes for this year and next!

We’ll be back tomorrow with bout #7. Please help all our writers out by telling everyone you know what is happening here and encouraging them to come vote.

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

WRiTE CLUB 2021 - Preliminary Bout #5

Here we are with the final bout of the week - but remember, the voting for each bout remains open for an entire week, so if you missed one or two you can always go back and catch up over the weekend. Here's a timeline of how the remainder of the contest will play out.

Here's a reminder of what is happening. WRiTE CLUB (sponsored by Wild Lark Books) is a tournament-style contest that will run for nine weeks (which includes a week break for the holidays). It provides writers the opportunity to compete against one another for a chance to win a free publication package (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 (decided by a group of twelve 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.

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, the voters can win a $50 Wild Lark Books gift card. 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 Thurs. Dec 16th (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. What is okay, in fact, encouraged, is 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…here we go!

On one side of the ring stands The Comet representing the Fantasy genre.

Flames of Anger

Fire flamed in Maggie’s hand as her eyes narrowed on the man in front of her. He killed her best friend. The image of Janell’s lifeless body, blood seeping from a wound on her chest, fueled the rage building inside her. 

She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath, channeling all her energy and thoughts into the fire she was about to unleash. Warmth spread from her chest, down her arms, and into her hands, making the flame there grow bigger and bigger. 

The pendant around her neck glowed as she pulled even more magic from it. Her fingers tingled with the power flowing through them. When she was satisfied it was enough, she opened her eyes and focused on the man staring wide-eyed in front of her. 

He scrambled backward. “Please, I had no choice. The king would have killed my family.”

“So you sacrificed one human to save another?”

“If it would have been your family, would you not have done the same? I have a little girl, Marcy. She needs me.” A tear slid down the man's cheek.

The anger inside Maggie faded slightly. The flame that had been building in her hands shrunk just a little. If she killed this man, she would be no better than him. She may even be worse than him. At least he killed to save another. She would be killing out of pain and anger, killing for revenge.

The flame dancing in her hand grew smaller until there was nothing left but a wisp of smoke. As much as she wanted to see this man pay for killing Janell, she couldn’t just take his life. Her eyes locked onto his. “You better leave while you still can.”

A sob escaped his lips. “Thank you. I won’t ever forget this.” He turned and ran for the woods, disappearing among the trees.

Maggie dropped to her knees, allowing the sorrow of losing her best friend to consume her. She buried her head in her hands. Sobs racked her body as tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks.

When she had no more tears left, she wiped her eyes and got to her feet. Things would never be the same again. 

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

On the far side of the ring, we have WritingwithBourbon who represents the Alt History Fantasy genre.

Dull light from swaying kerosene lamps passed over the dead firing squad. Alexei and his family stared at the crows plucking the eyes out of the Bolshevik soldiers.

“Thank God,” Alexei whispered. He wiped away the splattered blood on his hands and face, then patted himself down, looking for cuts and bruises. “Thank God! The blood’s not mine.”

“We must go!” His father urged. Their first step from the wall and the murder of crows stopped feasting. “Go!” His father hissed. At their second step, black wings swarmed them, cawed them back against the wall. Hands pushed Alexei back and forth, rattling his head. His mother kept him behind her, half wrapped in her skirts.

“Anything?” She demanded over her shoulder, eyes wide. He patted himself down again.

“Nothing.” Alexei lied, swallowing the blood from his bitten tongue.

Howling winter winds blew out of the basement’s shadows. Alexei’s family huddled and shivered. 

“Leaving before giving thanks. I should not expect better from Romanovs.” A raspy voice scorned, then cackled. The crows added their cawing chorus. Alexei shut his eyes and covered his ears.

“Show yourself and we will know whom to thank!” His father shouted over the din.

Stone tapped against concrete. Alexei opened his eyes to watch the darkness. Old stories echoed in his memories as the sound came closer. A pestle held by gnarled hands entered the light first.

“And what will the Czar who abdicated offer me?” Eyes, bluer than Siberian ice, gleamed at the light’s edge. When they passed over him, Alexei couldn’t help the warmth rushing down his leg.

“We can pay-” One moment his father was standing tall, and then he was on his knees gasping for air. One rush of wind and Alexei stared open-mouthed into the fishhook grin of Baba Yaga. The child eater of legend tightened her knobbled hand on his father’s throat.

“Keep your bloodstained gold. I want Russia’s future.” Her eyes found Alexei again. His mother pushed him back. She spat pious prayers wishing damnation would fall on the witch’s head.

“Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s.” Baba Yaga spat in answer. “You all live because of me. I claim him as mine.” She stabbed the pestle’s stone tip at his mother’s gut. Metallic echoes from the gold and gems sewn into his mother’s gown filled the basement. She doubled over, heaving. Alexei tore away from his sisters and grabbed the wrist killing his father.

“Please let him live, I’ll go with you.”

The fishhook grin never changed, but her eyes softened for a second. She leaned in close to his father’s red face.

“Be grateful your son is braver than you.” She shoved his father back into his mother. His family huddled and fussed over each other. Everything in Alexei wanted to run back to them. Five fingers wrapped around his shoulder, strangled that urge.

“Come princeling, and together we will mold a nation of magic the world has never seen.”   

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

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.

Before we sign off, 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 or Chrome browsers they have 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.

Finally, in order to keep this contest going AND GROWING, I'm asking folks to donate to the cause on my Ko-fi account. Let me assure you, 100% of the donations will go towards the contest prizes for this year and next!

We’ll be back next week with five more bouts. Please help all our writers out by telling everyone you know what is happening here and encouraging them to come vote.

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

WRiTE CLUB 2021 - Preliminary Bout #4

We're back with preliminary bout four. Remember, the voting for each bout remains open for an entire week, so if you missed one or two you can always go back and catch up.

Here's a reminder of what is happening. WRiTE CLUB (sponsored by Wild Lark Books) is a tournament-style contest that will run for nine weeks (which includes a week break for the holidays). It provides writers the opportunity to compete against one another for a chance to win a free publication package (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 (decided by a group of twelve 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.

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, the voters can win a $50 Wild Lark Books gift card. 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 Wed. Dec 15th (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. What is okay, in fact, encouraged, is 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…here we go!

On one side of the ring stands Elettra Miller representing the Cozy Mystery genre.

As the two FBI agents lead Cherry off of the casino floor, Dot adjusts the elasticated waist of her trousers, flips out her cane with the flowers on the shaft, and catches up 

"What's going on?"

"Murder, probably." 

"You're a suspect?"

Cherry half smiles. "Let's hope not." 

The agents reach a fire door and open it. Brad is tall, but his chin is weak, and Carla bears the scars of teenage acne. They are, however, pretty darn fit. Dot follows them down the employee hallway, wondering if it's too late to start building her glutes.

"DAMN! What kind of asshole architect puts one step in a hallway?" 

Cherry has half fallen and is leaning on the wall. Dot rushes back. 

"Have you been drinking?"

"It's Vegas. Haven't you?"

Dot bites her lip. "No, Cherry, I haven't been. I wouldn't drink today any more than I'd drink if I was running a marathon."

Cherry glances at the cane, but seems to think better of commenting. 

It's too late, though. Dot feels the tips of her ears go warm. "The ladies out there and I have been training our brains to the limits for months. Mind palaces, mnemonics, all that stuff. Do you know how many decks were in that shoe on the table? Eight, these days. Then you waltz in and …"

"Everything okay?" It's Carla. She's come back to see why they aren't following.

Cherry pushes herself straight. "I don't suppose you got coffee?"

"I sent Brad for some. He'll meet us at the murder scene up those stairs." She holds out her hand. "He told me about your good work on the Pasadena highway killer last year."

Dot looks from Carla to Cherry and back again. "You consult for the FBI? That's what this is?"

"My assistant," Cherry says to Carla, "she's new."

Dot doesn't want to be Cherry's assistant, but she's not keen on explaining she's in Vegas to fleece casinos using math, so she follows them up the stairs. At the top, there is police tape and something gunky spilling out an open door. Carla goes to flag down Brad, and Cherry turns to Dot. 

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to watch you."

Dot sighs. Her team has earned so much money over the years, they don't need more. These days, they choose a GoFundMe to support. "I shouldn't have mentioned it. It wasn't an invite."

"My daughter needs the therapy. It's the only way she'll live a normal life."

"It's okay."

"And I could use some help now, actually. You're right. I'm pretty trashed."

Despite herself, Dot is curious. She's never seen a real crime scene. She figures the ladies can wait a bit. 

They walk down the hall, toward the tape. Brad is there with coffee, and he hands Dot one. She looks at the glistening globules of matter scattered across the floor, wondering if it's brains. 

"Meat feast pizza," Brad tells her. "Better drink up, ladies. The real show starts inside."

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

On the far side of the ring, we have Lady Warbleon who represents the Gothic Horror genre.

House of Whispers

 

The house had outgrown them.

No, I have not misspoken: truly, the Château du Chuchote was bigger than when the family first arrived. Like a quiet cancer, it swelled and spread—stairwells unrolling from drywall, corridors sprouting from halls, porticos appearing where they hadn’t been the day before.

The youngest of them was the first to notice, one fog-softened afternoon in August. “We’ve a courtyard now, Mother,” she announced over tea.

“Of course, Nicolette.” The mother did not spare a glance from her cup or a care for the courtyard. Like all the house’s additions, it was easy enough to trivialize with reason or diagnose as imagination. It has always been that way, the adults would say, even as the foundation groaned beneath them.

Nicolette spent her day exploring the cour d’honneur all the same, delighted to find it trimmed with fieldstone and ripe roses. She tucked her dolls among the buds and armed their porcelain palms with thorns. For a perilous moment, she considered hiding herself in the roses, too, deep in the brambled shadows.

But she knew it would not matter. He would find her anyway.

Nicolette took a nascent hallway back to the nursery, so narrow she had to turn sideways to pass. There were tiny white flowers metastasizing down its length, and when she touched one, it rained petals at her feet as though this were the nave of a chapel and she the bride. It was both sad and beautiful, she thought, not unlike the house itself.

She did not tell the mother about the hallway. Or about the door that had begun to etch itself into the nursery wall. She knew it was not her imagination, because she would watch the door’s light inch closer each night—to the toy chest, to the chair, to the foot of the bed. She would watch the light whenever the yelling swelled below her, and the rumble of his voice grew closer.

The next morning, she ate peaches and regarded the new window in the parlor. She skipped through the rambling enfilades and sunk her dolls to the bottom of the new fountain. And that night, she found the new door in the nursery had cracked open, the light beyond it coaxing and warm. While other children might have been afraid, Nicolette knew there were bigger things to fear. Like the sound of his footsteps thundering down the hallway, her name a curse in his mouth.

When he arrived in the nursery that night, he did not find Nicolette. He found only a melting lantern, only an empty wall, only a new porcelain doll left in her stead.

The house had outgrown them, you see. It’s said the Château du Chuchote had once been home to many daughters. Now, the grounds are quiet, save for the occasional creak of a beam settling into place. It has always been that way, the adults would say.

But if you listened, the house would say different.

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

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.

Before we sign off, 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 or Chrome browsers they have 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.

Finally, in order to keep this contest going AND GROWING, I'm asking folks to donate to the cause on my Ko-fi account. Let me assure you, 100% of the donations will go towards the contest prizes for this year and next!

We’ll be back tomorrow with one last bout for the week. Please help all our writers out by telling everyone you know what is happening here and encouraging them to come vote.

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

WRiTE CLUB 2021 - Preliminary Bout #3

 

We're back with the next preliminary bout. Remember, the voting for each bout remains open for an entire week, so if you missed one or two you can always go back and catch up.

Here's a reminder of what is happening. WRiTE CLUB (sponsored by Wild Lark Books) is a tournament-style contest that will run for nine weeks (which includes a week break for the holidays). It provides writers the opportunity to compete against one another for a chance to win a free publication package (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 (decided by a group of twelve 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.

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, the voters can win a $50 Wild Lark Books gift card. 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, Dec. 144th (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. What is okay, in fact, encouraged, is 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…here we go!

On one side of the ring stands Flipside representing the Women's Fiction genre.

Ruby sat at the kitchen table, pen in hand as she gazed upon the rolling hills of the farm outside her window. It was spring, and the sun through the glass warmed her face as she struggled with what to say. Grasping the pen, she winced from the pain of arthritis.

My Dearest Annie.

She scratched it out.

Annie.

Just her name would be best.

“How can I tell her?”  The image of a little tow-haired boy being chased by a skinny-legged girl came floating into her mind. “You two. Always friends. Always laughing. I remember that first day he came into Sunday school, all red cheeked from running. His father said he was a handful, but I never had a moment’s trouble out of him. I should never have agreed to teach that Sunday school class…teaching leads to nothing but trouble.”

Annie,

Jimmy’s dead.

 The words staring from the paper, she decided brevity was best in this situation, so she would only require a postcard. No. Short and to the point—that was how she determined to handle telling Annie the news.

Hit by bread truck.

Should she put that?  She usually didn’t hesitate to put the cause of death; it was what people were going to ask anyway so why not tell them straight away?  Less chance of gossip and speculating. So yes, she would put that. “Best she gets used to life letting you down, and no amount of flowery language will take away facts or pain.”

Rifling through her stationary box, she discovered only one postcard: an Easter postcard with a pastel yellow daffodil and pale brown rabbit. Annie had always loved rabbits and flowers; this would let her know she was thinking of her in this tragic event.

How to end?  After several false starts, she settled on the simple:

Mother.

Laying the pen down, Ruby retrieved a newspaper clipping worn and thin from age and handling. It was usually hidden in the bottom of her stationary supplies, but times such as these made her crave it like an amulet. “He’s dead,” she said resolutely. “Dead. Love always dies.”

As she fingered the ancient, yellowed article she whispered softly to it, “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

Sorry, she thought. Sorry for so much. She thought about adding this to the card, but stopped short of putting the words on there. It was true: she was sorry. She was very sorry. Very sorry for all of it: for the bizarre and tragic death of Jimmy; for his father’s loss; for her daughter’s loss; for all of it. “She’s not a little girl anymore. She’ll be fine—she’ll bounce back. She’s too young not to.”

Too young not to. She remembered the words from years ago, but death never got easier. 

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On the far side of the ring, we have S.L. Grady who represents the Mystery/Thriller genre.

The door opens and Lexi races towards me. I sink to my knees and wrap my arms around her furry chest as she covers my face in wet kisses. “Okay,” I tell her. “Walk time!”

 

Winter means that daylight is scarce, and the lingering rain clouds only deepen the sinister feel of the night. Regardless, I equip myself with a flashlight and rain boots before Lexi and I drive to McCormick Forest Park.

 

The empty trail head is unsurprising and a relief we have the place to ourselves. “Go ahead,” I motion Lexi out of the car and she happily obliges; her tail spinning as she darts into the forest.

 

Not before long, the bright white light shining from my flashlight dims to a lackluster yellow. I swear it had a full charge before I left. Without warning the flashlight shuts off, blindsiding me into pure darkness.

 

“Lexi!” I call her name, reassured when I hear her familiar pant. Without any light, I can barely make out the shadows of the trees that stand before me. “Let’s go,” I tell Lexi, turning back towards the car.

 

The sudden snap of a twig from behind jolts my body like a strike of lightning. I instinctively tense, paralyzed from taking another step forward. “Hello?” My shallow voice trembles.

 

I cautiously continue forward, trying to sidestep stray branches. Unsettling silence radiates across the forest. “Lexi?” I don’t hear the clank of her collar against her heart shaped tag. “Lexi,” I call again, this time louder.

 

Panic arises in my chest; I need to get to the car, I need to find Lexi. “Lexi!”

 

Another snap of a branch breaks the stillness that permeates the air. I am not alone.  

 

I quicken my pace, but rain soaked dirt gloms onto my boots, weighing down my feet with each step. Finally, I see the faint glow of a street light ahead.

 

Breathless, I reach the car. Before I open it, Lexi emerges from the trail. Relief calms my hammering heart. “Get in!” I yell.

 

On the drive back home, I have one hand on the steering wheel and the other on Lexi. “What’s that?” My hand reaches into her mouth and pulls out what feels like a long, tattered rope. I throw it on the floorboard amongst empty water bottles and crumpled store receipts.

 

The following morning I drive into work, still shaken from the night prior. I turn on the radio to quell my unease, landing on the local news station. “19 year old Tara Johnson went missing Tuesday night. She was last seen walking her dog Maggie near McCormick Forest Park.” My blood turns cold.

 

I gulp down a bottle of water and throw it on the floorboard. My eye catches the blue rope I must have pulled from Lexi’s mouth last night. I look again. It’s not a rope, but a canvas collar. Still damp, I scrape away the dirt that is caked over the nameplate. “Maggie.”

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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.

Before we sign off, 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 or Chrome browsers they have 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.

Finally, in order to keep this contest going AND GROWING, I'm asking folks to donate to the cause on my Ko-fi account. Let me assure you, 100% of the donations will go towards the contest prizes for this year and next!

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

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