No rest for the weary here in WRiTE CLUB as we rush towards the championship. Today we bring back another group of winners to battle it out inside the infamous cage.
Here's how this works. Instead of two writers competing against one another as was the case is previous bouts, now it's THREE AT ONCE. The contestants will be using the same writing sample that allowed them to get this far, the only difference being that now they're up against new competitors. The readers/voters will have to choose one of the three to move on. There will be six daily bouts (Mon-Sat), and no saves this time.
If you voted in the preliminary rounds, then there is no need to leave a critique with your vote this time, however, if this is your first time seeing these writers we do ask that you leave a brief critique 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-S), because of time restrictions the voting period will be staggered somewhat, so please pay attention to the dates posted. The voting for today’s bout will close on Tuesday, June 4th (noon central time).
The piece that garnishes the most votes will move on to the next round where they’ll face a different opponent with a 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.
Like the man say's
Our contestants for this first cage bout (is random order) are -
OpheliaPansies
Nyx couldn’t feel her fingers or toes. Her consciousness waned as someone carried her down the corridor of a ship. It looked like the Thanatos, but the blur of the tan panels as they sped by could’ve been any other ship.
She moaned, and a deep voice hushed her. Her black jumpsuit was soaked and white parka frost-covered. She shivered, iced to the bone.
A door slid open, and the person cradling her set her on a soft bed.
Fingers unzipped the parka, unbuttoned the front on her uniform, and peeled the wet fabric from her body. The white tank underneath clung in frozen folds. Nothing was going to heat her back up.
Her eyes fluttered as the hulking figure of Malcam sat her up and pulled off her underclothes, then wrapped her in a dry blanket. He laid her down and piled her wet hair on a towel, melting the icicles at the ends. Maybe it was time to cut it again, her head spun through the drowse of cold.
A weight settled next to her, hot. Arms circled her, pulled her close, and her uneven breath slowed, heartbeat steadying. A hand rubbed hard against her arm.
She didn’t understand why Malcam was so insistent. He was her enemy.
She tried to turn, but the blanket wrapping her was tight, and her limbs cold-numbed. Something had happened. She wouldn’t die because of the nano-bots in her blood. Couldn’t die. But she was in danger of losing consciousness, maybe forever.
She fought to open her eyes.
Malcam’s voice whispered, panicked. “Come on. Don’t go to sleep.”
She muttered, tongue thick.
“That’s it. Stay awake. Stay with me. Don’t leave me.”
Nyx flexed her fingers, tiny motions, painfully, one-by-one. She hadn’t lost any to frostbite.
“That’s it. Move. Just a little.” His voice frantic.
He pressed his fiery feet against her tingling toes. The pain of the temperature difference seared through her legs. She pushed her toes, hardened by the cold, straight. She curled them. They wouldn’t move.
Malcam wrapped his legs and twined his feet with hers, pouring heat from his body.
Nyx’s cold-fogged mind dimmed. Her nano-bots wouldn’t allow damaged tissue to be a part of her system. Frostbite could be battled, but she could still lose her toes, her feet. The nano-bots would cut off resources to that part of her system if deemed irreparable. They would concentrate on what couldbe fixed. So, she had to move her toes to prove to the system they were viable.
She gripped Malcam’s hand. He clutched hers back. She squeezed her toes down as hard as she could, pain ripping through her legs. Her toes clenched, gently scratching the tops of his feet.
Nyx rolled her head towards Malcam, their faces close, lips nearly touching, his breath on her face. She blinked, engulfed in his bright blue gaze.
He wrapped a hand to her forehead.
He was dangerous. He shouldn’t be helping her. She shuddered. She’d owe him now.
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Contestant number two is Hijinks Aplenty
Everything was done to the letter: The candles were made of black wax, the pentagram flawless, the invocation properly pronounced. You’d checked, double checked, and independently verified that the summoning would take place below a genuine hanging tree where a witch met her fate. And it’d worked! So why deny your request?
“Is it my soul?” you ask.
“No,” the Devil waves his well-manicured hand. A glinting amber ring that you’re sure wasn’t there a moment ago reflects the firelight. “Your soul is fairly attractive… for one who hasn’t accomplished much. That’s normal. The already accomplished rarely seek a deal with me.”
You think on that for a moment. There must be something you’ve overlooked. Your spine snaps as it hits you.
“Rattlesnake blood!”
“Hmmm?” the Devil hums. He’s wandered to the tree and is idly prodding the bark, which crumbles to ash below his fingers. The amber ring sparks with each tap.
“You’d have preferred rattlesnake blood. I knew it! Rooster is pedestrian.” You beat a fist against your thigh. You should never have listened to HisDarkestNight on that community forum.
The Devil scoffs, an amused curl to his lip. There’s a sizable hole in the tree now. You look to the large branches overhead and take a hasty step back.
“Your ritual was fine. I try not to judge. Nor make pageantry out of it.” He snorts and sends a meaningful look to the star-encrusted sky. A dark gray fedora has appeared on his head.
“I don’t understand.”
“Look, times have changed.”
The tree creaks a groan. The Devil smoothly strides to you and pats your shoulder.
“These individual contracts aren’t efficient anymore.”
“Efficient?” you echo.
“Exactly! Time is a competitive advantage these days, and my time has become a bottleneck. Much as I enjoy personalization, I am no longer accepting unique requests. We have an online catalogue now that will suck your soul out right through the screen, once you’ve made a decision on which terms best fit your goals. You do have access to the internet, don’t you?”
You stare for some time. A pocket watch slithers out of the vest he didn’t have on. Swallowing, you eke out, “Yes.”
“Splendid!” The Devil shakes your hand and turns to go. He pauses, smoke curling up from his feet. Using two fingers as pincers, he snatches up the candle flames, popping them into his mouth like candy.
“Mm, French Vanilla. Good choice.” He flicks a business card at you, says, “I look forward to your future business,” and vanishes in a spurt of fire.
The gold etchings on the card sparkle in your recovering eyes as you blink at it. The Devil’s voice suddenly whispers against your ear, “Oh, and I wouldn’t stand just there.”
A deafening crack rends the air. You flail, backpedaling before curtaining your face with your hands. The tree crashes down. Heart galloping, you tumble to your backside, branches framing you.
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And finally number three is The Bulging Ballpoint
Shiny and new, she's lost her shoe,
Ruby red, the girl is dead.
Grace found the shoe on one of her treasure hunts.
Once a week, she scoured her neighborhood for discarded objects she could recycle into artwork. This morning she’d taken a detour through Whispering Woods, an aspen filled copse. She’d rummaged through undergrowth and freshly shed leaves, with the deftness of someone working in a sorting office.
It was the color that caught her eye. The shoe looked like a floating cherry in a sea of butter-colored leaves. Given its size, she guessed it belonged to a child of about three. Same age as Molly. Picking it up, as if it were the child itself, Grace cradled it.
Caressing the shoe, she’d envisioned the little foot that had lost it, plump still with baby fat. She imagined a defiant toddler, tottering and plodding. Just like Molly.
Five years had passed without her daughter. How she’d survived even one day, was incomprehensible, but she had. Her life had moved on. Different, but on. She’d been cautioned during therapy about the high rate of divorce between couples who’d lost a child, but engulfed in her own hell, she’d neither listened nor cared - the words as meaningless as her existence.
Instead of fleeing though, her husband, Sam, had stood fast, cocooning her in unconditional love. Her broken jigsaw of a heart had fused, piece by piece, into a new whole.
His work as a pediatric surgeon, had saved him, he’d said.
Still holding the shoe, Grace considered leaving it, in case the mother returned. Deciding that was unlikely, she’d dropped it gently into her goodie bag, telepathically promising the unknown child’s mother that she’d treasure it by recycling it into art.
An idea for repurposing the shoe flashed through her mind. A signal, Grace thought, from the child’s mother: her sign of approval. She’d hurried home, eager to begin sketching her idea.
Grace’s phone buzzed while she was unlocking the front door.
“Late tonight sweetie. Emergency surgery. x ”
She sighed reading Sam’s text, knowing its implications. Poor Sam. Poor parents. Poor child.
Switching on the TV, Grace emptied her haul onto the kitchen table, ready to begin her cataloging process. Amidst the muted tones of sticks and stones, her prized shoe glowed. A precious ruby amongst nature’s debris.
BREAKING NEWS: Police are asking for the public’s help in finding three year old Hanna James, who went missing last night near Whispering Woods. Hanna was wearing a blue dress, red coat and red leather shoes…
A girl’s face flooded the screen.
Molly! It’s Molly. But Molly is dead.
The room becomes a kaleidoscope of Mollys - Molly bubbling with life; stagnant with death - her distorted face spinning and swirling, exhuming sorrow; appointing blame.
Hurtling herself outside for air, Grace sprints to the trash can and throws-up, spraying its contents.
It’s there she sees it. Splattered beneath her vomited breakfast, the toe of a little red shoe.
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We’ll be back tomorrow with another cage 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!
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