Welcome, Warrior of Words.
The playground is best known for CAMPFIRES, a communal storytelling experience where authors gather to create fiction together.
You will find no such camaraderie here. There is only one rule— write to the death. Once inside the Arena, there are no collaborators, no shared tales, and no safety in numbers. Here, writers stand alone in a literary duel, facing the same prompt. Both fight with nothing but their words.
When the votes are counted and the dust settles, only one author will remain standing. Only one will be crowned Champion of the Arena.
Today, Ira C. Zipperer has volunteered to be J Wirrowac‘s opponent.
The audience
The challengers have entered the Arena below.
Now their fate rests with you, the readers.
Read both stories carefully before casting your vote. Each author has faced the same prompt, but their interpretations may differ wildly. Consider how each writer approaches the challenge and which story leaves the stronger impression.
The poll will be active for one week.
The prompt
I am looking for more contestants! If you think you can do better, please write your story in the comments below.
Combatant 1.
Ira C. Zipperer
Willie sat in his recliner in front of the fire. It was late, but he was not tired and just too comfortable to move. The warmth from the fireplace pressed on him from all sides, wrapping him in an embrace against the cold. Completely at ease, the most pressing thought in his head was whether to toss the last wedge of firewood on the fire tonight or save it for the morning. He stared at the flames and embers, mind drifting.
A stray idea interrupted the tranquility: He should record this experience in his journal. That would require a little more light, deciding the fate of the last piece of firewood. He would have to get up to retrieve his journal anyway. Willie got to his feet and stretched slowly, in no hurry. He found his journal and a pen, grabbed the wedge of wood, and tossed it on the fire. Before he sat down, he turned his recliner slightly to capture as much of the firelight as possible.
He re-seated himself, opened the journal to a blank page, and wrote the date. Then he turned his attention to his senses. It was so quiet he could hear the snow falling on the windowsill when the fire didn’t crackle. The silent air smelled of wood, traces of the fresh cut, and the newly burning aromas mixing. His tactile sensations were the warmth of the fire, the cushioned softness of his recliner, and the feel of the journal and his pen in his hands.
Just as Willie finished recording his perceptions, the sound was broken by a slow, deep creaking, the old house settling under the weight of the snow. The wind whipped against the windows, rattling the glass and moaning at the obstruction. The fire ignited a bit of pitch, surprising Willie with a pop and sizzling crackle. His pen added scratching noises as he struggled to keep up with the recording. The night was coming to life in sound. Willie breathed in through his nose to check for yet undetected aromas. The burned wood smell was stronger, and there was a new odor, something like mildew, a faint rot. He couldn’t place it. Willie stood up and walked toward the kitchen, the most likely source of the smell, sniffing along the way. The sound of inhaled breath in his ears almost missed the squeal of something rubbing against glass, behind him. He turned and rushed back into the living room. The sound was gone, but the smudge on the glass was an alarming visual, the smell of decay stronger here than in the kitchen.
A sharp thunk of metal, followed by a hiss, startled Willie. It came from the fireplace. Drops of water sprinkled into the fire. The flue damper lever was in the closed position. Something had forcibly shut it. Something heavy and cold had been dropped down the chimney. Smoke slowly filled the room. Willie rushed to open the flue damper, coughing. It wouldn’t catch. It was blocked. Something was driving him out….
Thank you, Ira, for your contribution.
FYI, he is going through a slow-burning apocalyptic sci-fi series right now on his publication. I thoroughly recommend you give it a try.
Combatant 2.
J Wirrowac
The clock had stopped at 2:17. Mara noticed it while warming her hands by the stove. The second hand simply halted, trembling between ticks, forgetting what came next. She tapped the glass. Nothing. The clock belonged to the previous owner, an old trapper who’d vanished some years prior. Laughing it off, the realtor mused, “probably wandered off drunk into the woods.” Mara hadn’t cared. Outside, snow pressed up like a slow tide.
The clock ticked again. Just once. Mara looked up from her chair, now, then back to her book without giving it a second thought. It had jumped forward to 2:25, though she hadn’t wound it. Tick. The walls answered. A faint scratching came from the logs behind the clock. She sighed before turning a page. “Cheap junk,” the words escaped her mouth.
Tick. For a moment, the cabin fell perfectly silent.
Then— Tick.
The scratching started again, fanning through the wall like a wave. Mara snapped back. The clock ticked again, deeper, almost like a knock. From the floorboards came a slow shifting, a heavy turning in the space beneath the cabin. Dust shook loose from the rafters. Tick. The scratching howled everywhere—inside the walls, under the floor, even above her in the ceiling beams. Mara stared at the clock. 2:45. The scratching ceased all at once. Then, from the silence, something knocked back.
Thank you very much for reading. Now, please go back up and vote.
If you think you can do better than us, write your 300-word story in the comments.
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I love it!
Please vote. No hard feelings. Just what you want to see in the future.