WRiTE CLUB is a writing community sensation sponsored by the DFWWriters Conference that is loosely based on the popular movie Fight Club. There are numerous versions of this concept floating around the internet, but nothing like we do it here. This unique approach embodies simple, good-natured competition, with lots and lots of fun sprinkled on top.
We've narrowed the field down to ten and we're continuing on with the play-off rounds – which will continue to come at a rapid fire pace, Mon-Fri. The voting for all five bouts will remain open until noon on Sunday, July 5th. Your task remains simple…read the submission from each WRiTER carefully and leave your vote for the sample that resonates with you the most. If you haven’t already done so in the previous rounds, offer some critique if you have time. Anyone reading this can vote, so blog/tweet/facebook/text/smoke signal everyone you know and get them to take part in the fun. Vote on as many bouts as you can get around to. Whether that is one bout, or all five, how much you participate is up to you.
Here’s something else to keep in mind for this round...every vote counts. That’s because the contestant who doesn't win their bout…but garners the most votes amongst all of the other losers…will become a wildcard winner and still advance to the quarterfinals.
The winners will be posted on the WRiTE CLUB Scoreboard late in the afternoon on July 5th and then the quarterfinals will kick off the following Monday, July 6th, again with all new 500 word submissions from the six advancing contestants.
Good luck to all of the WRiTER’s!
In this corner, representing the contemporary YA genre and weighing in at 500 words, welcome.....MissWriteNow
Dancing with the devil is fun, but dangerous. Turns out, checking out some muscled guy’s girl can be just as dangerous.
Saying some sort of prayer or delivering my own last rights is what I should do. But no. I can’t. Because I haven’t the slightest idea what religion I am. But not for lack of trying—I’ve been auditioning religions since I was twelve, when protective services kicked Ma’s custody right out the door.
The Jewish Fosters were cool, but old as dirt and couldn’t keep me forever. Doesn’t matter anyway, those little hats didn’t go with my wardrobe.
I was nearly convinced after eight months with the Baptist Fosters. That true believer plunge down at Carver’s Creek had been so close. But Baptist Mom seized with embarrassment when I introduced the preacher’s daughter to an herb that made her giggle right off the church pew.
I’m certain I’m Catholic. This epiphany is compliments of the Catholic Fosters, who forced me to tuck my white shirt into a navy pair of slacks and strap a tie around my neck. I was okay with it after seeing plaid skirts and tall socks adorning the girls at my new school.
Prayers, hymns, rosaries. None of that matters anymore. Dead people don’t need any of that. Of course, I’m not dead yet, so I should try saving my sorry ass.
“Look, man, I didn’t know she was your girl,” I lie, pointing to the brunette in question. My eyes slip too far south, locking on the triangle material covering her chest.
Juice Head’s fist pulls back. “You’re dead!”
My head weaves to the side. Too late. Every ounce of Juice Head’s weight is pushed through his arm, into his fist, and crackles through my nose.
Sand cushions my collapse. Liquid copper spews from both nostrils and gurgles down my throat, reinforcing that my snout is definitely broken. Religious debates aside, I’m immediately thankful God is a fighter, because only a fighting God would give numbness with a broken nose.
Rolling on my side, I glimpse the biggest, slap-your-momma-ugly dog I’ve ever seen. I follow the leash with my eyes. A boy about my age tugs the snapping dog back. “Calm down, boy,” he says to the beast. His eyes bounce from Juice Head to his dog. “You better get out of here before my dog gets loose.”
Juice Head looks down on me. “I’ll see you again.” Bikini Brunette smirks and jiggles her backside extra hard as they walk away.
A naturally tan hand extends. “I’m Zahir,” dog boy says, pulling me from my sandy bed.
I tug my shirt to my nose, smudging the gallon of blood still flowing. “Zahir? Never heard that name before.”
“Muslim, huh?” I bend to stroke the drooling dog. “Don’t know much about Muslims.”
Zahir shrugs. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know much about your religion.”
“Come on, man,” I say, walking away. “I’ll tell you about funny hats, river plunges, and plaid skirts.”
And in the other corner, representing the historical genre with 500 words, welcome……….Eleanor McInnes
“Mama! Aunt Clarice’s tryin’ to get me!” Her pink cotton dress flew behind her as she ran to Mama’s chair.
“Now, Sweetie, she gets confused. Her mind is worn out.” Mama put down the stack of receipts and looked at her angry, freckled face.
“Mama, are you worn out?” She asked when she saw the dark circles around Mama’s eyes that she got whenever she got grumpy.
“Unequivocally,” she stretched and smoothed her housedress, “but I have to finish my work.” Mama sighed as she looked from the dining room table covered in books to the window and the rain outside.
“Do I have to play with Aunt Clarice? She calls me the wrong name and she takes my baby dolls.” She shoved her hands into her dress pockets.
“I know, but she’s a sad old lady. Her babies died during a war when they needed the medicine for soldiers and there wasn’t any left for her sick babies.” Mama toyed with her curls.
“Soldiers? Like Daddy’s a soldier now?” She asked.
“Different war.” Mama paused before she went on, “Sometimes Aunt Clarice thinks she is living back then and I need you to play like you are that little girl so she won’t be so sad. Do you think you can do that for Mama?”
Mama took her hands. She liked how her hands got lost completely in Mama’s. She didn’t hold her hands as much as she used to, back before Daddy got drafted. They both just held on a while.
“Ok, but can we go to the picture show this week? And get popcorn? Just us?” She tapped her bare toes on the dining room floor.
“I’ll see what I can do. Can you go visit with her now?” Mama nodded her head until she returned the nod and let go of her. “Good girl, now go on.”
She tiptoed down the quiet hallway, the sound of the clock marking her steps, and froze at the parlor door.
“Annie! Come join me,” the white-haired woman patted the seat next to her on the settee.
“My name ain’t Annie,” she crossed her arms and planted her bare feet firmly on the rug.
“Now, let’s not play games. Come have tea and tell me about your day.” Aunt Clarice sipped from her china cup. “I have tea cakes today.”
She eyed the plate of tea cakes. At least today wasn’t cucumber sandwiches; she thought Daddy was right that the only good thing you could do with a cucumber was make pickles. She had told Aunt Clarice that, and even tried telling her to make pickle sandwiches, but she didn’t like that idea.
Settling next to the old woman, she took a tea cake off the plate and swung her feet.
“What have you done today, Annie?”
She took a bite that was too big and was still chewing while Aunt Clarice waited for her answer with one eyebrow cocked. She swallowed loudly.
“I played like I was someone else.”
Enjoying two talented writers at work is only part of the price of admission, now it’s up to you to decide who moves forward. In the comments below leave your vote for the winner. Which one tickled your fancy? After you vote please tell all of your friends to stop by and make a selection as well. Yes, it’s subjective, but so is the entire publishing world. It’s as much about the readers as it is about the writers.
This is WRiTE CLUB – the contest where the audience gets clobbered!