WRiTE CLUB 2021 - The Finals

 

This journey began for 30 writers nine weeks ago and now as it draws to a close we should take a moment and reflect on all of the wonderful writing we've seen. To reach this point in WRiTE CLUB - having your work read and judged by a conglomerate of industry professionals - is no easy task. But then again, it's not supposed to be. Writing is a gift, perfected with hard work, and this contest plays only a small part in drawing that gift out into the light. A hearty WELL DONE to each of the contestants that made it into the ring this year.

Fern Calloway and Lady Warbleon will face off for the opportunity to be crowned the 2021 WRiTE CLUB Champion. The winner of this final bout (along with the two finalist real identities) will be announced on Facebook LIVE this coming Saturday (2/5) at 6PM (central). Both of our finalists have had their 1,000-word samples forwarded to our celebrity judges and those samples are also displayed below. 

Now to talk about the elephant in the room. Fern Calloway was named the winner of her semi-final bout even though she had one fewer vote. This was done because I learned there was some communication that took place, although not done purposely or will ill-intent, afforded her opponent an undue advantage. So to be fair I took steps to rectify the issue. I was sorry to have to do this, but I felt it was necessary in this case. Steps will be taken to clarify the rules regarding the effort to maintain strict anonymity for future contests.

Going forward, although the votes/comments left here will not carry any weight towards deciding a winner, everyone is still welcome to state an opinion in the comments. The comments in this round do not count towards the gift card giveaway.

Our other prizes will be announced Saturday as well.

Here are the 1000-word submissions by our two finalist.

Up first, Fern Calloway.

Leave It Alone

Sylvia picks at the crusted brown scab. It flakes off easy and a bit of yellow goo oozes free from the now exposed hole. Instead of relief, she’s greeted by more burning, more tingling, like ants marching one by one through her veins. The flesh is inflamed, pulsing with heat. She should ice it, she thinks, and folds the scab into her napkin. She scratches, scouring her nails across the leaking puncture.

Her husband swats her on the shoulder. “Leave it alone.”

Sylvia folds her hands into her lap trying to ignore the itch, but it’s spreading. She runs her palms over her thighs, leaving damp streaks across the denim. “It’s fine.”

He grabs her arm, exposing the angry wound in the crook of her elbow. Claw marks line her angry flesh like rows in a plowed field. “Doesn’t look fine to me. When are you going to see a doctor? Make an appointment. Please. Two weeks ago, it was a scratch.”

Closer to three, she thinks. She’d lost her golf ball, the third one of the day, somewhere in the brambles along the river. Too stubborn to leave it, she trudged off the fairway to wrest it from the tangled vines. A little spilled blood was worth saving her new pink Callaway.

She slips from his grasp and picks up her fork. She scrapes together what’s left of the gravy and rogue meat crumbles. Her stomach begs for more even though she’s already had three servings of meatloaf. A wave of nausea washes over her. She drops the fork.

Sweat beads on her forehead. Her skin prickles despite the spreading rush of heat Is she getting a fever? She doesn’t want to worry Bill further, but damn it’s hot in here.  She closes her eyes and takes a few breaths to calm the swaying room. When she opens them again, her vision only pulses around the edges instead of spiraling out of control.  The wound throbs, pumping out a rhythmic tune she can’t ignore.  Still itching. Still demanding. This insatiable itch is exasperating. She digs harder, reveling in the new, fresh sting as she rakes her nails over it. The skin breaks and trails of blood rise to the surface.  

“Stop.” Bill swats her again as he stands. He clears the dinner table and disappears into the kitchen.

Alone, Sylvia returns to her digging. One finger at first. She prods and pokes, working the flesh aside. She forces a second, and a third, knuckle-deep into the hole. The stretch and pull of skin peeling from muscle eases the itching, but only just.  

Something slithers away from her prying fingers, like a worm in moist, luscious soil. It burrows deeper, snaking toward her wrist. She screams, frustrated, and chases after it. Her forearm rips open like a weak seam, exposing meat and tendons, but not whatever is squirming through her insides. She rips chunks loose, hurling them away like garden detritus.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bill races to the table. He grips the tablecloth attempting to wrap her now gushing arm with the corner.

At his touch, she lurches from the chair and scurries across the room on all fours, leaving a trail of blood in her wake. She crouches by the loveseat, hunching over her arm like a ravenous dog with a gnarled rabbit. Growling now, she turns her attention back to the flayed meat. Tendons hang free, swaying like pole-bean tendrils caught in a breeze.

Her purpose narrows onto the squirming thing hiding somewhere between her bones, out of reach. She grunts, and lowers her teeth to her arm, peeling away meat like bark from a birch tree. Shredding and pulling, she eats her way deeper between radius and ulna. Hunting for the wriggling thing. The itch.

She flings a mouthful to the floor. The wad of goop splatters onto their expensive Persian rug, marring it with a stain that will be impossible to remove.  She doesn’t care, another bite. Another mound. A new stain.

From somewhere over her shoulder, Sylvia’s husband screams, the sound not unlike a middle-school girl. He flails like a stale scarecrow caught in a windstorm before he collects himself enough to pull something from his pocket.

“I’m calling…” He heaves like he might vomit. “…an ambulance.” He stabs at the screen, glances back to Sylvia. Bill takes another step back toward the kitchen. Gags again. His face is devoid of color, his lips flapping. Bill’s words do not register as language, only syllables she can’t comprehend.

His scent is overpowering.

Mouthwatering.

Sylvia drops her mangled arm and it dangles useless at her side. Her lips pull away from her teeth. She snarls. A glob of drool clings to her chin a moment before falling.

Gnashing her teeth, she lunges. Her arm flops as she closes the distance. The phone tumbles from his grip and clatters away, sliding under the sofa. They careen to the floor landing in a weighty thud. 

She grunts, swallows, bites again, digging her teeth into his neck, his face, his chest. Wherever she can get a mouthful. His final breath erupts, spraying her with crimson mist. He stops fighting.

What’s left of him soaks into their forever ruined Persian.

Sylvia snorts, her hunger satisfied.

The thing in her arm coils around bone and scrapes against a nerve. Something green peeks out from the gaping wound before disappearing again into the mangled mess that once was her arm.  

Footsteps thud against the porch steps, followed by a knock at the door. “Sylvia? I heard screaming. Is everything okay?”

Sylvia ignores the sound, digging at that insatiable itch.

There’s a rattling, a jangle of metal against metal, followed by grinding.

A click. The knob turns.

The door opens.

“Sylvia, honey? Bill? I’m coming in.”

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

And finally, Lady Warbleon.

The Keeper of Kilkee

 

There are legends, and then there are tales that are etched into the bones of a place, carved so deep in its culture that you cannot separate them from fact. What begins as fairy-lore spreads like something infectious, from one generation to the next, until every soul and street and structure is tainted by superstition.

That was the way with Kilkee, a small oceanside town tucked in the northern recess of County Clare. It was not a legend that merrows haunted its coast—it was a collective understanding that the ocean was dangerous and that the women creatures made it so. When men turned up missing, the townspeople blamed whisky or a wandering eye, but they all knew the truth.

As the lighthouse keeper, Fionn was closer to this truth than most. He felt the unnatural throbbing of the tide when the women moved inland, could pick up their cloying scent on the breeze when they waded below the cliffs. He would often turn on records at night to drown out their sorrowful wails that seeped through the cracks in his walls.

There had been none of those warnings when Alice first appeared outside the lighthouse one summer day. Fionn knew he should be wary of her beauty, of her newness, but she told him her family had sailed in from Limerick on holiday, and he had to admit that was possible. Plenty of tourists summered in Kilkee to stroll the cliffs and watch for whales breaching off the reef. He would give them tours of the lighthouse and they would ask him to tell them ghost stories, which were the only kind Fionn knew.

 

But Alice seemed more interested in Fionn than stories so, against his better judgement, he invited her in for tea. 

 

“Will you be staying until September?” Fionn meant this as a pleasantry, so he was startled at the peak of hope in his voice.

 

“Yes, I go back to Mary Immaculate in the fall,” said Alice. “I’m studying to be teacher.”

 

The concept of university felt at once very foreign and very human—surely a creature of the sea would not be matriculating—and Fionn’s guard lowered further. “You’ll teach in Limerick then?”

 

She shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll go to America.”

 

“That’s very far away.”

 

“Would that be so bad?”

 

Fionn considered this. He had only ever known Kilkee, spent all nineteen years in the same two-mile parish, memorizing the curve of the bay. He hadn’t given much thought to the world beyond it, and now he couldn’t think of anything beyond the curve of Alice’s lips pressed against her cup. “They’d be lucky to have you.”

 

Alice smiled shyly, as if he had said something intimate. Perhaps he had meant it that way; he couldn’t deny he found her fascinating. Unable to do otherwise, he smiled back, and that was how it began. 

 

Alice returned to the lighthouse the next day, and the next. Fionn took her canoeing along the strand and for ice creams in town. He discovered that she had a soft, melodic laugh, and that he would do nearly anything to hear it. He grew more entranced by the day. As they walked along the beach one morning, he asked to hold her hand. And then, while swimming in the Pollock Holes, he finally asked to kiss her. Her lips tasted of salt, and he began to wonder if it was the water or if she always tasted that way. Her eyes were the same color as the ocean, now that he really looked. 

 

“Alice, tell me the truth,” he said suddenly. 

 

“About what?”

 

“What you are.”

 

But she only laughed and splashed him as she crawled back onto the blackstones to sun herself.

 

It went on like this for weeks. Fionn watched Alice nap under the twisted bog tree and picked her cowslip and milkwort to tuck behind her ear. And he noticed more and more how she bore the signs of the sea—a slight web in her toes, damp hair when she returned to him in the morning. When they eventually made love in the gallery of the lighthouse, she moved rhythmically, like the ebbing and filling of the tide.

 

Instead of being afraid of this revelation, he felt reconciled. As with the ocean, he knew he didn’t stand a chance against her once she’d chosen him, and he didn’t want to be without her.

 

That night, they walked to the cliffs to watch the sunset, listening to the milky breakers frothing against the rocks far below them.

 

Fionn took Alice’s hand and kissed her knuckles. “I’m ready,” he told her.

 

“For what?” she asked. 

 

“I know I must return to the sea with you. That’s why you’ve come.”

 

Alice laughed again—soft, melodic—and said nothing.

 

Fionn pressed further. “You don’t have to force me with your magic. I want to go with you.”

 

Now Alice shifted her eyes to him. He saw fear in her face, or perhaps it was guilt at being found out. “What do you mean?”

 

He took a step closer to the cliff’s edge. “We can go tonight. We don’t have to wait. Come, Alice.”

 

She tried to pull her hand from his, but he knew she was just being coy. He felt the truth of it in his bones. “I love you, Alice. It’s alright.”

 

His feet shifted against the earth, and her breath hitched. If she screamed at all, it was swallowed up by the wind cutting along the coast and replaced by the steady intone of the ocean. Where two lovers once stood, now there was only a single sprig of milkwort that had come loose from its perch.

 

The lighthouse stayed lit for many days until the townspeople came looking after its keeper, only to find him gone. They blamed love, said he had fallen for a girl from Limerick and followed her out of town. But they all knew the truth.

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I hope everyone joins me Saturday for the big reveal.

Best of luck contestants!

WRiTE CLUB 2021 - Semi-Final #2

Today is the 2nd and final WRiTE CLUB bout where the readers have a say in the outcome.  After these two bouts, it will be in the hands of the celebrity judges. But first, we need to decide who gets that opportunity.

The voting for both of this week's bouts will close on Wednesday, Feb 2nd (noon central time).

Here once again are the voting guidelines –

1) One vote per visitor per bout.

2) Anyone can vote (even the contestants themselves), but 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 more of a suggestion than a rule - cast your vote before you read other comments. Do not let yourself be swayed by the opinions of others.

Like the man say's

Welcome back to the ring our first contestant...Lady Warbleon

LOST-AND-FOUND BOYS

 

Everything in the world is broken except for us. We are kings, reigning over a landfill empire. We make thrones of pocked appliances, build castles in the hollow hulls of old Teslas. We spend our days hunting for treasures in caves carved of trash. Once, this would have been called make-believe, but now that’s all there is.

Boys are the scarcest treasure of all. Some were killed over food, and some to feed the war machine. And then there are my boys. Princes of the apocalypse. Guardians of the junkheap. My boys: Andy, Logan, T-Dog, Blub—the last so named because he cries at night. If the others do, they know better than to give it noise. Crying is not allowed here. Lying is not allowed here. Cussing is encouraged, except for one word:

Gr*wnup.

We don’t care to remember them, and we will never become them.

Tonight, Logan snares a rabbit, and we dance in celebration. Though it scarcely softens the hunger, we go to bed with greasy smiles. T-Dog tells us a story of a Cyborg who falls in love with a mermaid and is thus electrocuted. He says it like that too: is thus electrocuted, as though he’s some kind of scholar. Our laughter echoes through the metal turrets long into the night.

As I drift off, Andy whispers, “Crow.” I’m so named because I’m a scavenger with a sharp memory. “I think we’re gonna be alright.”

I smile but don’t agree; lying is not allowed here.

In the morning, we wake to the smell of burning rubber. This is the smell of men.

“Raiders,” my boys hiss. I’ve known they would come. We are too happy and they won’t abide that. The Raiders were never boys; they were men who went to war and brought it back with them. They talk out of steel mouths with gunpowder words. They want our treasures and our youth.

They will get neither.

Instead, we launch fireballs at their fleet from catapults made of shovels and bungees. A few land true and we howl in triumph, louder even than the gunshots.

“Never!” we yell, to the Raiders, to fate. We defend our kingdom like it is our heart.

Burned and bested, the Raiders eventually retreat—a glorious, if temporary, victory. We are drunk off the adrenaline of it, all of us bubbling with laughter. All but one. T-Dog leans against the makeshift battlement with a hand to his belly, blood spilling between his fingers as oil through an engine gasket.

We carry him to his castle and try to remember what comforting looks like. He tells me he’s afraid. He says it like that too: I’m afraid, as though he’s just a boy. So I tell him a story of a knight who falls in love with a fairy and flies away. It’s a love story, or maybe an adventure.

Everyone is crying now, and I allow it tonight. But tomorrow, my boys, we must be kings again.

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

Also welcome our second contestant...Trelawney

Cat Show

Emily Parker had a lovely garden.

“Ooh, isn’t that lovely?” she’d hear passers-by exclaim on a summer’s day – especially when the blush pink roses were in bloom and tumbling round the cottage door.  Sometimes they’d stop, inhale its beauty, and take some photos to post on Instagram. The pictures would capture the exuberant jumble of hollyhocks, foxgloves and columbine that filled the borders, as well as the honeyed shades of the old stone walls – but, somehow, they never seemed to catch so much as the outline of the woman forever sitting sewing by the open window.

Emily Parker had lovely cats too.  Cats who would fastidiously wash their paws on the front step, or sit in a sunbeam on the grass, or settle down to sleep amongst the forget-me-nots.  Young cats, old cats, neat cats, fat cats, fluffy cats – all rescued, well fed, and thoroughly contented.  The villagers – those few who noticed her – nicknamed her ‘batty cat lady’, an archetype of eccentricity in shapeless clothes, which were surely fur-smothered.

“Well, she’s got inherited money, I reckon. Spends all her time gardening and looking after those animals.” 

“No, she’s only early ‘50s,” said the even fewer who knew her name. “Seems to take in a bit of sewing.”

“Bit sad, really.”

And that was as far as it went.

Seated at her window, Emily Parker would hear these scraps of conversation as she stitched and snipped and mended; would breathe in the scent of the blush roses as she created dreams from soft lengths of velvet, satin, and lace; tied exquisite bows from silken ribbons; and fixed sparkles onto bustles, and delicate pearly buttons onto bodices and gloves.  Every so often, she would slip a finished item into a protective cover and place it in a bag or cardboard box, cocooning her creation in a nest of tissue paper. Any cats tempted to turn one into a bed were gently shooed.

That was daytime.

The evening was rather different.

For, a couple of times a week, when Emily Parker had finished her sewing, she would leave her seat by the window, water her lovely garden and bring her cats indoors to be fed. Then she would go upstairs to her bedroom, pack a suitcase, and slip out. Nobody ever seemed to notice as she stowed the boxes and bags into her little car – or seemed to see her as she drove out of the village.  Once she reached the city she’d park, gather her belongings, and disappear into the side door of an unassuming building where she’d swiftly distribute her creations.  

“Oh, it’s gorgeous.”

“Just what I asked for!”

“Darling, you’ve mended it perfectly.”

She’d smile, then follow the recipients to the nightclub’s changing room. There, she would put on her make-up, open her suitcase, and take out her favourite velvets, and satins, and sparkles, and heels. And then, Emily Parker would transform herself into Catty La Fou - the finest, most luscious, burlesque dancer in the country.

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

Please 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 next Thursday with the final 1,000-word battle. 

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 2021 - Semi-Final #1

We're not messing around anymore! By the end of this round we will have narrowed the field down to just two contestants, and they will be submitting their 1,000-word writing sample to the panel of celebrity judges. 

We do ask that you leave a brief critique for both of our contestants because that is one of the real values of this contest – FEEDBACK. Please be respectful with your remarks!

The voting for both semi-final bouts will close on Wednesday, Feb 2nd (noon central time).

Here once again are the voting guidelines –

1) One vote per visitor per bout.

2) Anyone can vote (even the contestants themselves), but 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 more of a suggestion than a rule - cast your vote before you read other comments. Do not let yourself be swayed by the opinions of others.


Without further ado...welcome back to the ring our first contestant...Fern Calloway

For Their Sake

Gayle leans forward, bracing herself against the headstone, hanging her head as if in prayer. Guilt and failure settle into her throat. She swallows them down as she traces a finger over her sister’s name.

These children, her baby sister’s children, are sucking the life out of her. She shouldn’t be raising them. She doesn’t know how to be a mother. And to four young children? Impossible.

Gayle pulls the leather-bound book from her coat, flopping it open onto her sister’s grave. “I’m sorry, Lynn,” Gayle says. “I tried. I did. But I … I can’t.”

Behind her, the kids cry in the car. One of them pounds on the windows. She glances their way and holds up a finger as if they might understand she just needs one damn minute. Something they haven’t allowed since they’d become hers. But they aren’t hers. Not really.

They need their mother.

She turns back to the open book. Rain splatters onto the pages, threatening to wash away the words. Between sobs and apologies, she reads aloud, raising her voice over the storm, determined to maintain the proper cadence, careful to hit every accent. Gayle doesn’t speak Latin, but desperate times have led her here.  

The final words linger on her tongue, buzzing with potential. She pants from her efforts, her throat raw and burning. “Please don’t hate me for this.” Her voice cracks. “They need you.” She closes her eyes and falls prone onto the grassy grave. “I need you.”

As the rain pelts into her backside, she cries, letting her tears mix into the soil, pleading with whatever may be listening that can bring Lynn home.  After a while, the children fall silent and her own sobs fade. That’s it. There’s nothing more she can do. No more pleading. No more begging.

Crestfallen, she trudges back. The children are once more pounding on the windows, their little faces wide-eyed with a mix of panic and something she hasn’t yet seen on them. Joy?

The oldest girl points, then opens the car door. She races past Gayle, giggling as a gap-toothed smile lights up her face.

“Momma,” the other children shout in unison and chase after their sister, leaving the infant to wail in his car seat.

Gayle glances over her shoulder, her gaze following them.

Her sister stands by a mound of loose dirt, covered in mud and dripping with rain. She holds out her hands as the children rush into her. She licks what’s left of her lips, the skin of her gaunt cheeks sallow. Useless veins snake dark purple lines over her features.

She redirects her attention to Gayle, her eyes narrowing as she peels herself from her children and closes the distance.

“You’re a selfish bitch, Gayle.” She glances back to her children. “If this is going to work,” she whispers. “We’ll need meat. Fresh. Raw. Bloody.” A maggot drops from her ear and wriggles in the grass. “For their sake.” 

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And their most worthy opponent...give a hearty welcome to Durden Mayhem

I’m in a one-way love relationship. 

I have a major crush on a woman who doesn’t know I exist. 

Steph’s a Starbucks barista, and when she waits on me, I swoon. 

As an introvert, I’m always looking for quiet ways to impress her. When I go to her store, I always take three heavy, hardback books hoping to appear intelligent. I figure if she sees the titles I bring in, she’ll think I’m a medical student rather than an Amazon delivery guy.

 

Steph’s always nice to me, but it troubles me that she always asks my name for the order. I’ve told her “Mark” for 21 days straight, yet she never remembers it. 

I wish she would.

Being an un-remembered, unknown is hard.

Maybe I’m just a Smiths song…or the one by Beck.

 

Still, I return today, hopelessly devoted.

 

After parking my books, I get in line behind a corporate-looking fellow. He’s the sort I immediately despise because I imagine he is much better off than me and, thus, better than me. I’m decent-looking but he’s an Adonis. Well-dressed, white-toothed, wealthy, and fluent in frat boy.

 

He snaps out his very specific order: “Venti latte. Extra hot. No foam.”

Then his phone buzzes, and he takes the call - in Chinese.

 

As Steph tells him his total, he frowns at the interruption and holds up a serious, silencing finger as if he’s tele-counseling the Dalai Lama. Then, wagging his finger at her, he mouths again, “NO FOAM!”

 

He steps to the side – no tip.

Steph’s obviously just machinery to him.

I’m next. I order in insecure mumble-tones. I pay, tip, and step aside because Steph is busily covering both register and bar due to a late co-worker.

 

When she finally delivers Zeus’ drink with an obligatory smile, he doesn’t smile back. Instead, he does a quality check. He removes the lid and stares into his drink with horror. 

I see why.

Foam.

FOAM!!!

FOAM!!!!!!!

He sees it. I see it. She sees it.

 

“There’s foam,” he barks. “I told you twice. Are you stupid? Re-make it.” 

He shoves the open cup back across the counter. It flips over and splashes molten liquid onto Steph’s hands.

She bounces backward - burned and bewildered.

He glances at me, laughs, and utters a flippant, “Oops.”

But no apology. 

Steph is crying, and I am Fight Club furious.

I radar-lock onto this oppressor. With two quick moves, I grab the top book from my stack and swing it into his face. His nose bone cracks. As he stumbles, I swing the other side of the book with violent intent and crush his mouth. Then I grab his Hermes tie and hurl him temporarily into the Underworld.

He’s out cold.

Shocked, I stand over him...rage subsiding.

Steph approaches, smiling.

“Thank you, Mark.”

“Wait, you know my name?”

She touches my arm, “I’ll never forget it.”

I hear distant sirens blare. I await the cuffs. I anticipate jail time. 

Doesn’t matter. She knows my name!

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

Please leave your votes and critiques in the comments below. Again, be respectful of your remarks and try to point out positives as well as detraction's.

We’ll be back tomorrow with our other semi-final bout. 

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!

I'm Visiting Alex J. Cavanaugh Today

While we pass the time waiting for the next round of WRiTE CLUB bouts to begin (Thursday), how about visiting a close blogger friend of mine who happens to be featuring me and my book KNIGHT RISE on his blog today?

Alex J. Cavanaugh is the founder of the Insecure Writer's Support Group, the author of Amazon Best-Sellers CassaStar, CassaFire, CassaStorm, & Dragon of the Stars, and a prolific blogger. We both started blogging about the same time and I credit him for showing me how to go about making blogging interesting.

If you've got some time today, drop on over and say HI. Thanks!

https://www.alexjcavanaugh.com/2022/01/movies-about-writers-publication.html

WRiTE CLUB 2021 - Playoff Bout #3

We are now down to just six contestants and it's time to see how they match up with ALL NEW MATERIAL.

Please pay special attention to when voting ends because a staggered timeline will be used again. Speaking of voting, it has a special significance during the playoffs. In addition to three winners advancing to the semi-finals, a fourth Wildcard winner will also be selected. How is the WC chosen? It will be the loser that garnered the most votes among all three losers. So every vote counts - win or lose.

We do ask that you leave a brief critique for all of our contestants because that is one of the real values of this contest – FEEDBACK. Please be respectful with your remarks!

The voting for today’s bout will close on Wednesday, Jan 26th (noon central time).

The piece that garnishes the most votes will move on to the semi-final round where they’ll face a different opponent with yet another NEW WRITING SAMPLE. 

As always, in case of a tie, I’m the deciding vote.

Here are the voting guidelines –

1) One vote per visitor per bout.

2) Anyone can vote (even the contestants themselves), but 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 more of a suggestion than a rule - cast your vote before you read other comments. Do not let yourself be swayed by the opinions of others.

Please welcome back into the ring, with all new material - 

Durden Mayhem

The worst payoff will be for the $7,000 bet I made on a badminton match. 

Yes, I bet on a badminton match.

I had a dream about playing backyard badminton with a panda who was a beast with a birdie. So, I thought this was a sign I needed to drop a major bet on whatever Chinese badminton player I could find the next day. Jeff usually doesn’t take badminton bets, but after hearing my reasons for doing so and after some research revealing my panda pick was up against the top Thai player in the world, he was happy to indulge my dreams.

When my human panda was soundly beaten, Jeff issued the payoff I dread the most: “Run naked down Rodeo Drive while loudly singing the Baby Shark song.”

But that payoff must happen later. 

First, to pop the trunk and set my young captive free. 

When I open it, will he leap out and kill me? 

Or will he be too oxygen-deprived to do me much damage? 

Guess it’s time to find out.

I set my phone to video because Jeff wants to see the post-lock-up altercation, and I back up to give myself some space. Then I hit the button.

The trunk door raises, but nobody leaps out. Just an extended arm and a voice saying, “A hand, please.”

I move toward the trunk with my phone recording.

As I reach out, I point my camera over and catch the most shocking sight.

A man about 95 years old is in my trunk.

I drop my phone.

How long did I leave this guy in my trunk?

Had 75 years magically passed?

I grab my phone and rewind the video from the night before to see if I captured a geriatric rather than a youth. No. The video shows I’m not crazy. Black-haired, college-age drunk kid begging to get into my trunk.

Contrast that with the gray-haired man who’s taken his place. “A hand, please,” he says again.

Madness.

I pull him out.   He’s wearing the same clothing as the youngster from last night.

“What the hell? How…?”

He smiles. “Doesn’t matter. All you need to know is this. I’m here to help with your payoffs. I made a deposit into your account. Check it.”

I open my bank app and am shocked once again.

“There’s a million dollars in there,” I say, flabbergasted.

“Transfer 20k to Jeff, and let’s move to your other debts. Your real debts.”

“What real debts?”

“You were abandoned by your dad, right? He was a gambling fool, too.”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Now you’ve done the same. You’ve abandoned your wife and son, all to chase that rush. Well, it’s time you fix that. Do right by the ones you left.”

“And I can keep the million bucks?”

“Yes, but I’ve got five payoffs you’ll have to complete first. When those are done, you won’t care about the million anyway.”

I shrug, certain I’ll still care about the million.

“Okay. What’s first?”

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

Our second contestant is ch3ru

"You sure this is safe? Not gonna fry your internals or, I dunno...me?"

Sol is already submerged up to their chest in Leah's bathtub. "My exoframe is entirely hydrophobic, and my 'internals' are hermetically sealed within several redundancies. There is no risk of damage or injury to either of us."

"Alright, alright..."

The water is hot. Bordering on too hot, which is to say, perfect. Leah's skin prickles all over as she sinks down and gets settled, back to chest with Sol. Their exoframe is the pinnacle of android engineering: smooth and sleek and capable of withstanding the vacuum of space, among other hazards.

It had not, however, been designed for cuddling.

"Leah?" Sol says questioningly, after a solid five minutes of her splashing around.

"Almost got it. Just a sec… There. Perfect."

The water is nearly up to her ears and her toes are braced on the far wall of the tub. The back of her head rests on a dip in Sol's sternum. It's more good enough than perfect, but she's not complaining. It'd been her idea, after all.

Sol's exhaust vents cycle at regular intervals, churning steam into slow-moving spirals. The occasional kssst sound acts like white noise, lulling her to sleep.

"Leah."

"Mm?"

"It would be inadvisable for you to lose consciousness."

"M'not sleeping...swear," she lies, stifling a yawn.

Kssst go Sol's vents. Water sloshes, little waves stirred up by Sol moving their—

"Sol!" Leah yelps, but she's too late to stop them from standing up, or from bringing her along for the ride. "I'm freezing!"

"Your body temperature will regulate shortly."

Her bedroom is warm, but not that warm. Leah whips a towel over her body and dresses in record time before diving into bed.

Sol slides in beside her. "If the object of cuddling is sustained and uninterrupted physical affection, and you require sleep, then this..." they tuck one of her many pillows against their side, "...would seem to be the superior location."

This is exactly what she'd signed up for, dating an android: logic, with a side of charm. Never mind whether Sol's logic was sound, it was the principle of the thing. You didn't interrupt a girl in the middle of a relaxing soak!

She glares at the inviting little nest Sol has made.

"You win this round, circuits," she says, and curls up under their chin.

+++

 Sol's half-shuttered optical lenses pulse a dull, empty amber.

Since they'd woken her up last time, Leah had missed this sight. Talk about unsettling. She'd get used to it eventually. Probably.

"Sol?"

Amber flickers, brightens to familiar electric blue. "Good morning, Leah. Did you sleep well?"

"Never better," she says, honestly. "You?"

"Forty-seven reports graded and returned to students."

"Productive," Leah snickers. She plants herself on Sol's chest, prepared to explain the importance of lazy, decidedly unproductive mornings, when their arms press into her back without prompting.

"I may have also researched cuddling further."

Oh yeah, she would definitely get used to it. 

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

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