WRiTE CLUB - Round of Six - Bout 3

Time for the final bout in this round of six.  Once again the voting will remain open for two days, or until Sunday at midnight.  Monday morning we'll launch straight into the quarter-final round between the four remaining WRiTER's.  After that round and we've narrowed the twelve down to two, both WRiTER's will be given one week to submit a new 500 word writing sample.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves.  Please read the submission from each WRiTER carefully to determine how it stacks up against their new opponent.  Leave your vote for the sample that resonates with you the most.  Don’t forget to offer some opinions if you have time.  Anyone reading this can vote, so blog/tweet/facebook/text/smoke signal everyone you know and get them to participate as well.  Good luck to both WRiTER’s!

And now…..

Passing through the ropes and making their way to the far corner is....ART GALLERY

I've been stealing glances at him for the last two weeks.  Always reclined back in his chair with his elbow resting on the table, a cigarette perched between his finger and his thumb. Most of us are just so stiff and formal in here, especially me with my hands crossed demurely over my velvet coat and my hair pinned up properly under my hat as I sit on the terrace with my baby sister. His aspect is much more appealing. I wish I could lounge like that in a rumpled white T-shirt and rowing pants, smoking a cigarette and relaxing with friends.

We're both part of the permanent collection here but have frequently been on loan to other museums, so we've rarely hung for long in the same gallery. I learned from the docent who leads tours through the Impressionist wing that he's a Renoir, like me, so I always figured he was just the same old, same old. But now that I look—really look—I see we are quite distinct.

It may have been his suave nonchalance that drew me in, but it's his entrancing, cerulean eyes that keep me looking back. I know he's comprised of the same sweeping blurs of brushstrokes as I am, but from the distance between our opposite walls, he's a defined, striking figure, and his sang-froid eyes are as beautiful as anything I've ever seen.

 I thought I'd been discreet in my glances, but one day he caught me. And winked. I’d flicked my eyes away, pretending to examine the long boat in his background, but when my gaze drifted back a few minutes later he was unabashedly staring at me. He’d smirked and tapped out his ashes as he returned his attention to his friends, but things have been heating up ever since.

More often than not, when I direct my gaze to him, he's already looking at me, one corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile that I interpret in oh-so-many delicious ways. That’s when the canvas under me starts to warm, and the heat must be radiating to my baby sister because she's been shooting me odd looks. Something's got to give or soon I'll be nothing but a myriad of melted oils on the floor beneath my frame.

Fortunately, something is going to give. Yesterday his eyes lingered on mine for a particularly lusty moment before pointing with a slight nod of his head toward Monet’s haystacks at the far end of the gallery.  The lumps of dried wheat are bulky enough for two figures to hide behind. Unnoticed. Today he repeated the motion and wrapped his enticing lips around a silent "Tonight."

It's not unprecedented for images to leave their paintings for a rendezvous—from what I've heard through the paintvine all manner of things go on in the modern art gallery—but amongst us staid, Impressionist pieces, it's fairly uncommon. I've never done it, nor have I dreamed of doing it. Until him.




And their opponent in the near corner....ANNE SHIRLEY

They say that when you're about to die, your whole life flashes before your eyes.

Turns out it's true.

I sprawl in a pool of my own blood. The sky comes in and out of focus, and it's an unnatural color, like a bruised plum. Bombs explode to my right, spewing smoke tongues that smother the earth. Two men hover over me - Lieutenant Daniels and that baby-faced soldier who cried the night we got deported. I think they're trying to staunch the oozing wound on my thigh, but I'm not too sure.

My mind is going. Lying there on the battlefield, all I can see is Molly. Molly wearing her Dodgers cap in the kitchen, making breakfast, telling the dog to get down, stay there, good boy. Peter! Emily! Hurry up or you'll be late!

Wagging tail. The crisp smell of cinnamon French toast. Backpacks zipping. Sneakers skidding because the bus is pulling around the corner. Shit, I'm going to miss it! YOUNG MAN, don't ever let me hear you say that word again! Giggles. Peter said a bad word, Mom.

Little arms thrown around my neck. I love you, Daddy. I love you too, sweetheart.

The baby-faced soldier's voice slices through my delirium. "He just call me sweetheart?"

"Don't flatter yourself, son. He's feverish. Hand me that bandage."

"Yes, sir."

Lieutenant Daniels' ruddy face appears. "Jackson. You're gonna be all right, you hear me?"

A church decorated in red, white, and blue. My father lying there in his coffin. I kiss his cold forehead, the way he used to kiss mine when I was sick. I love you, Dad. My turn to fight for peace. I swear I'll make you proud.

San Francisco Bay, holding hands with Molly, heart racing because I'm about to ask her to marry me.

The doctor's office with Pat, my frat brother, my football buddy. The cancer will take me over, Jackson. No, it won't, I won't let it. You're gonna be just fine, Pat.

"He's going, going, gone," the young solider mutters.

"Don't count him out yet," Lieutenant Daniels says.

As if on cue, I sit up. Everything, everyone I love. I don't know if I'll see any of them again. But there's still breath in my body. Where there's breath, there's life. And where there's life, there's fight.

"Jackson. Get down, we need to clean that wound!"

"Where are you going?!"

I crawl out of our hideout. Dragging my bad leg, I sling my gun over one shoulder.

There's a small army of them, tongues lolling from their lifeless faces. Green skin curdled like bad cheese. Slowly, they lurch toward me with sickening hunger, moving around the mutilated bodies of my fallen comrades.

I imagine them bending over Molly, the kids cowering in the doorway.

I load my gun.

They want my brains. I want them dead. Even deader than they already are.

"YOU'RE GOING DOWN, BITCHES!" I scream.

"Jackson, no!" Lieutenant Daniels howls.

I throw myself at the zombies.

WRiTE CLUB, it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audience out!

WRiTE CLUB - Round of Six - Bout 2

Here's the second of three bouts between our six semi-finalist.  The voting will remain open for two days until the third and final bout of this round on Saturday.  Read the submission from each WRiTER carefully to determine how it stacks up against their new opponent.  Leave your vote for the sample that resonates with you the most.  Don’t forget to offer some opinions if you have time.  Anyone reading this can vote, so blog/tweet/facebook/text/smoke signal everyone you know and get them to participate as well.  Good luck to both WRiTER’s!

And now…..

In the near corner, welcome back to the ring.....LILY MASON

Mr. Griffin held out a lumpy gold paperweight the size of his palm. "This is all I have that'll hold a spell for an extended period of time.”

I plucked it from his palm and held it up to the light. A frog prince with a jewel-encrusted crown and two glittering emerald eyes returned my gaze. I smiled at it, my stomach fluttering as the urge to kiss it overwhelmed me. Feeling silly, I gave him a quick peck on the lips.

Mr. Griffin gave me an amused look while Angie giggled.

"In the original fairytale, the princess threw the frog against a wall before he turned into the handsome prince." Mr. Griffin said.

Angie scoffed. "She physically abused prince charming while he was a frog and he still married her? Jeez, what a loser."

The frog’s glittering eyes watched me. I narrowed my eyes and whispered to him, "Is that what I’m supposed to do?"

Angie lunged forward. "You’re already dating a frog, let me try."

I dodged her and tossed the frog. It sailed through the air and struck the wall, leaving a dent the size of my fist before thunking to the floor. It wobbled to a stop at my feet like a boomerang.

I looked sheepishly at Mr. Griffin, my cheeks burning. My apology barely bubbled out before the door opened and my ex, Jesse stepped through it.

My breath caught and I stared. He had been gone for sixteen months. No goodbye. No forwarding address. He simply vanished.

He’d been working out while he was gone. His grey t-shirt hugged his chest and arms. The hand in his front jeans pocket tugged his waistline down just enough to reveal a little skin. He could model for one of those ads where they sold clothes using nearly naked hotties.

Angie gave me a wide-eyed look before running over to give him a hug. She squealed when he picked her up and twirled her around.

I rolled my eyes. What a suck up.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Mr. Griffin said, holding out his hand, “How are you?”

Jesse shook hands before his gaze shifted to me, his mouth set in a thin hard line. “I’m fine, sir.”

Mr. Griffin glanced at us, cleared his throat, and said, “Angie, I need your help out front.”

Reluctantly, Angie smacked Jesse on the butt and followed her dad out of the room, shooting me a wicked smile.

Feeling awkward, I picked up the frog. I hefted it in my palm twice, admiring the weight of it. I contemplated pitching it at Jesse’s head, but set it on the table instead.

When I looked up, he was close. Too close. There was a white scar above his lip that hadn’t been there before.

I decided focusing on his lips was a bad idea. “Did you come to apologize for being a jerk?”

His bright blue eyes studied my face. “I missed you too.”

And in the other corner....JAMIE STUART

Charlene Gentry didn't know what to expect when she died. She wasn't necessarily an evil person, so would heaven welcome her? She wasn't an angel, either, so would hell be her destination? Not that she had a choice, but she assumed those were her only two options.

Certainly not 5542 Sycamore Lane.

She must be dead. How else could she explain the view of her bedroom from above? She didn't own a mirror on the ceiling, as badly as she had dreamed of putting one up there. And the eyes of the body – her body – lying on the bed below were closed.

The front door slammed. "Charlie? You here?"

Robbie. Her big brother finally made it. Was he in time? How long had her body been lying there? Minutes? Hours?

"I'm in the bedroom!" She yelled, but did he hear her? Dammit! How could she move to him? Was she stuck up on the ceiling for all eternity?

The sliding door to the backyard opened. "Hey, fella. Whatcha doing out here?"

Barnaby's claws ticked, ticked, ticked, as they skittered across the kitchen floor. Soon the chocolate lab burst through the bedroom door, Robbie close behind.

"Charlie?" He rushed to her body and placed his fingers against the neck.

Did he get a pulse? Was she still alive? He pulled out his cell.

"It's my sister. I think she OD'd."

"No, I didn't," she said. "It's not what you think."

"Fifty-five forty-two Sycamore Lane… No… Yes… Okay. Please hurry." He dropped the phone on the bed and proceeded to perform CPR. Barnaby whined.

"That's it. Resuscitate me. Bring me back, Robbie!"

After several pumps on her chest, he blew air into her mouth. He repeated the process and checked her neck. "Dammit, Charlie. Come back! Don't leave me."

She willed herself to be by his side, and it happened. So that's how it worked! "I haven't left you," she said. "Don't give up!"

He didn't react to her words, but he continued with the CPR.

Where was the ambulance? They should have been here by now. She only lived a couple of blocks away.

Robbie checked her neck again and started to cry.

"No! I don't want to die!" She reached out for him and her hand went through his body.

He didn't feel her. She was nothing.

"How could you be so stupid? I trusted you!" He fell to his knees and placed his head on the bed.

His sobs wrenched her heart, if she even had one anymore. She couldn't blame him. She was stupid. Not for overdosing – she'd been clean for a year – but for trusting Carl. That bastard had killed her.

She had never believed in ghosts before. Looked like she was one now. Was she stuck inside the house forever?

Oh crap. Maybe she was in hell.

Best of luck to both WRiTER's.  In WRiTE CLUB, it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audience out!