Cristin Harber vs. Jonas Lee

Hannah:

Vote for the next round of stories on Write Club Fight Club — Delta: Revenge and Little Gods !!

Originally posted on Write Club Fight Club:


Please take a moment to look at both fighters, which one appeals to you more. The titles will link you to their story. Fighters names are removed to try and even out any odds and are reflected in no particular order. Feel free to add comments below for their improvement, as well as the improvement of WCFC. Don’t forget to tell us who won!


 Little Gods


Delta: Revenge


Copyright © 2014

All content in this blog created by the blog owner or participating guest writers is the property of the specific writer(s) in question and protected by U.S. and international copyright laws and cannot be stored on any retrieval system, reproduced, re-posted, displayed, modified or transmitted in any form, electronic or otherwise without written permission of the copyright owner.  You may not use any content from this site to create derivative works.



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Hannah:

My story is up against one by Jeyna Grace over at Write Club Fight Club–for this round, stories had to start with “It began last fall in the woods” and deal with the theme of revenge. The entries are anonymous, so read each piece and vote in the handy poll!

Originally posted on Write Club Fight Club:


Please take a moment to look at both fighters, which one appeals to you more. The titles will link you to their story. Fighters names are removed to try and even out any odds and are reflected in no particular order. Feel free to add comments below for their improvement, as well as the improvement of WCFC. Don’t forget to tell us who won!


 The Duffle Bag


Crescent City


Copyright © 2014

All content in this blog created by the blog owner or participating guest writers is the property of the specific writer(s) in question and protected by U.S. and international copyright laws and cannot be stored on any retrieval system, reproduced, re-posted, displayed, modified or transmitted in any form, electronic or otherwise without written permission of the copyright owner.  You may not use any content from this site to create derivative works.



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Hannah Sears vs. Jeyna Grace

“On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero”

fight-club-movie-poster-1999-1020215604

Writing can often seem like a solitary pursuit, one of the reasons blogging can be so much fun. In the spirit of interaction, a fun new project run by Jonas Lee will be starting up next week. It’s called Write Club and much like Fight Club, it pits two people against each other, but in a battle of words rather than fists. Check out the schedule here. As you’ll see, my story will go live on Monday, September 29th. The stories are anonymous and the winners are decided by votes. So head on over on Monday and follow the Write Club blog to get all the stories for the upcoming matches. Free stories, step right up! Write Club is also looking for more combattants, if you’re so inclined!

Recommendations for the Masses

Is your Tuesday plagued by the sense that Monday is repeating itself? Are you looking for ways to avoid doing work/writing/planning a world takeover and inventing a shrinking ray? If you answered “yes!” to any of the previous questions, look no further.

CHUK is a serial story/novel about the Louisiana town of Bayou Bonhomme. There’s BBQ, cults, murders, mystery, and a veritable menagerie of monsters. Penned by Jessica B. Bell (the nefarious, nasty, and not-very-nice alter ego of Helena Hann-Basquiat), this tale is almost at a close–but there’s still time to catch up!

You think your day is bad? Sean Smithson’s probably had worse. He’s self-deprecating in the best of ways as he recounts various tales of woe and humiliation. He also has a book!

Ashley Alleyne also has plenty of stories of his embarrassment for your entertainment, along with general stories that are amusing, poignant, and honest. Jennie Saia (who is clever and funny and smart) likes him, and that’s endorsement enough for me.

Reflect

Friday Fictioneers: One photo, one story of 100 words.

© Janet Webb

© Janet Webb

There are things you know you’ll miss—for me it was cheeseburgers, that particular satisfaction of drinking a cold beer after a long day out on the lake. Then there are the people; the ones who grow old and fade away, leaving you alone like the last skeletal leaf clinging to a tree when the snow starts falling. That part was harder, watching parents and friends wither into nothing, into food for worms. They didn’t tell me I would miss my reflection, that I would slowly forget my own face. Sometimes, I’m not certain I exist. Then, I get thirsty.

An Ode to Apple and Microsoft, in the Tradition of Romeo and Juliet

Two companies, both alike in dignity,

In fair Silicon Valley where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where different operating systems make people want to scream.

From forth the grinding gears of these two foes

A pair of star-crossed softwares take your files;

Whose misadventured piteous overthrows,

Do with their glitches bury your smiles.

The fearful passage of their glitch-marked love,

And the continuance of their consumers’ rage,

Which, but competition’s end nought could remove,

Is now the endless traffic of life’s stage.

The which if you with patient ears attend,

A customer service rep in the middle of nowhere shall strive to mend.

 

This is dedicated to my sister, R, without whose Google Chat conversations, this never would have been written.

*It’s not in Iambic Pentameter. Take it up with my legal counsel, the firm of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern*

Assassins’ Academy II

         When the boys were roused from their beds for the trial, stumbling after the Brothers with sleep-shrouded eyes, the tension was palpable. They never knew exactly what the trial would be until it began–although dark hints from the older boys left even the bravest lying awake into the early hours of the morning. They were all surprised and twice as wary when the Brothers led them into the dining hall. It was cold and lacked the comforting smells of breakfast, as the first meal of the day would not be served for several hours yet, but there was nothing threatening in sight. Instinctively, the boys pressed together, scanning the room. Brother Calver moved to the head table where a large, misshapen mound was covered with fabric. He pulled the cloth aside with more flourish than necessary, Zion noted, keeping slightly to the side of his fellow novices. If there was to be some sort of attack, he did not want to be caught up in the crush of their fearful bodies. For a moment, he was back on the docks, ripped away from the protection of his Mother and sister’s hands and unable to escape the mob. He hoped no one could see the sheen of sweat on his brow as Calver began to speak.
         “There will be no swords, no bows and arrows, and no knives, today.” He waited for the rumble of dissent and confusion to die down. “This is the only weapon you need, boys.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “This is the only thing you will use today.”
         He gestured for them to draw nearer and explained that the thing on the table was a scale model of a city–Nyssa, the fabled city of unbreached walls and towers that stretched beyond the clouds–and that their mark was the Emperor of Nyssa. They must devise a way to kill the Emperor without detection and remain alive themselves. Those were the only two rules.
         “Eliminate your target and stay alive,” Solas repeated, stepping forward from the back of the group. “This is the foundation of your training. Do not forget it.”
         Zion did not turn to face his mentor like the other boys but as the assassin walked towards the front of the room to stand behind the table, he paused imperceptibly and Zion caught the flicker of his fingers, hidden from the others at his side. Luck go with you. Zion stood at the table, scanning the model and the symbols painted on it that represented archers and guards and boiling oil and pitfalls and traps. He had never believed the stories of Nyssa, but looking at it as though he was a raven soaring high above its so-called endless towers, he could see the cleverness of the design. It was diamond shaped and two of the four walls were carved directly into the cliffs behind. The cliffs were made of slate if he understood the symbol correctly–sheer stone that would flake at any attempt to drive in footholds. At the back corner a waterfall tumbled down the black walls. Long after the other boys took their seats, sketching and toying with bits of rope and wood, Zion studied the city. He ignored Brother Calver’s sighs and the creaking of the floorboards as he shifted impatiently. When he cleared his throat and announced that they had half an hour remaining, Zion walked over to the table of supplies, mind whirring. He picked up a piece of parchment and several pots of ink and a quill. For the next half hour, he bent over his work, stopping only flex his cramped fingers. He wasn’t certain if they would be given time to explain their methods, so he painstakingly wrote down the steps he would take in addition to his diagram. When Brother Calver announced that their time was concluded Zion put aside his inks and wiped his stained hands on his shirt. Calver and the others stopped at each boy and allowed him to explain his scenario. The Council nodded and shook their heads almost in unison, doling out heavy criticism. A few of the boys received grudging compliments for their innovative thinking, but one by one their plans and mechanisms were torn apart, the gaping flaws pointed out to them.
         When the Council came to Zion, he stepped back to give them a clear view of his work. The painting master, Brother Andrew, made a noise that could have been either a cough or a sign of approval.
         “And what,” asked Brother Calver slowly, “is this?”
         “Monkshood. Or Wolf’s Bane,” Zion said, gesturing to the meticulously painted flower. He had enjoyed leafing through Brother Garth’s herbal on the rare occasions he spent time in the infirmary.
         “What do you hope to accomplish with this?” Brother Mendic asked.
         “The waterfall that runs along the back of the city–it is their main water source.” He pointed to the rough sketch he had made of the city, the way the water disappeared underground to well up again in fountains and cisterns. “Everyone, from the lowliest maid emptying chamber pots to the Emperor of Nyssa himself drinks this water. The forests around Nyssa no doubt contain enough Monkshood to make the water deadly, but an assassin could carry a concentrated supply as well.”
         “But how would you ensure only the Emperor drank the water?” Calver asked. “What about the rest of the city?”
         Zion looked down at his carefully outlined plan, from gathering the plants and distilling their poison to adding it to the water system, how to completely avoid notice from the guards, the townspeople, even the huntsmen and goat herders in the forested hills. He let the silence stretch until he could almost taste Brother Calver’s anticipation of his failure. Then, he raised his head.
         “That wasn’t one of the rules.”
         Two days later, Zion spent his first night in the pit. The pits were small, stone lined holes beneath the foundations of the main buildings. They were damp and cold and there was not enough room to sit or lie down or stand fully upright. A man–or even a boy of fourteen–had to crouch like a beast in agony until everything went numb. Brother Calver said it was for insolence, for other, minor infractions that had been overlooked for too long. Zion knew he was lying, had seen the tremor that ran through Calver’s hands and the flicker in his eyes at the group trial. He knew Calver lied and he knew why.
         Brother Calver was afraid of him.