Proving that sometimes less is more, Marquistar wins round 26. Make sure you take the time to refresh yourself with the all of the winners by checking out my WRiTE CLUB 2012 results page
I'm in a rush to get to the weekend, so without further adieu…..
Here are this rounds randomly selected WRiTER's.
Standing in the far corner, weighing in at 288 words, please welcome to the ring……..A. Malcolm.
He had nowhere inside the caverns to hide the charm, nowhere his mistress would not sense it. So he dug a shallow hole outside, on the cliff top, placed the golden rose in a ring of stones, and piled on more stones in a sort of cairn.
Wynne had not given it to him, exactly. The rose had come off in his hand as he'd held hers in his paws. He'd lingered for that moment after he'd rescued her, but the drone of an oncoming car, headlights slicing the night, had warned him he'd been over long in public view.
He'd jumped into the icy waters and swum back to the caverns, swiped at a passing sheep as he clambered up the cliff, and brought it to his mistress. She'd been asleep, but her nostrils had twitched at once. He'd scurried up to his lair, wet fur and all, like the guilty dog he was. Guilty for disobeying Mistress, and keeping secrets from her. Guilty even more for - what had he done, exactly? The Man part of his mind protested. After all, only the Beast owed allegiance to the mistress.
He tossed and turned on his straw bed, the underlying stone digging into his muscles.
He'd followed Wynne. Wynne, that was her name. He tried to whisper it into the dark, but all that came out was the snuffling of a wolf.
He still could not fathom what had possessed him to chase after her, but the ache had not dissipated. Man-part and beast-part alike were consumed by thoughts of Wynne, by the scent of Wynne. A long-ago smell of clean soap, and ink.
Human smells he'd all but forgotten in his five years as the Beast.
And in the other corner, weighing in at 356 words, let me introduce to you ……..Matilda Maxwell.
Something felt different.
The thought floated into my mind before I’d opened my eyes, and I blinked a few times, clearing the morning fog that nestled in my brain. The purple walls of my bedroom looked the same, but there was a distinct smell of alcohol in the air, overpowering the usual aroma of clean cotton which originated from the diffuser on my dresser.
Breathing. Someone was breathing beside me. And I was naked.
I pinned the sheets close to me with one arm - a fairly pointless thing to do as he had already seen everything - and turned onto my side. The rise and fall of his chest would have been calming if I hadn’t been so stunned.
At least he’d had the good manners to stay all night.
Wait. Was that good manners? Or was it just weird? Are there even rules for this kind of thing? In a moment of clarity, I recalled asking him about it when I’d brought him back to my flat, but he’d silenced me with a kiss that made me forget the question.
Oh, the kisses.
Billy. His name was Billy. Remembering this important fact made me feel less like a floozy. It was awkward enough waking up beside an unfamiliar person, without adding to the humiliation by admitting you can’t remember what to call them.
Letting out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding, I took a quick glance around the room. The clothes we’d hurriedly shed the night before were strewn across the floor, and various garments were dangling from my mirror and wardrobe. One of Billy's socks had somehow ended up on the lampshade on my ceiling, threatening to drop down on him at any moment.
My eyes flicked back towards him. The dark stubble across his chin that had scratched against my face when he kissed me seemed a little thicker, and his black hair was sticking out in peaks, where I’d raked my fingers through it.
I’d only gone out for a quiet drink with my friend, and I’d come home with the man your mother warned you about.
Anyone can vote, but newbies should know that before they can vote they first must sign up on the Linky List found by clicking on the badge below. The voting will remain open until noon next Thursday.
Remember, here in WRiTE CLUB, it’s not about the last man/woman standing, it’s about who knocks the audience out!