Author Topic: Fortnightly Writing Competition - National rivalries [THE END]  (Read 1140 times)

WHAM

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National rivalries


The Finns and the Swedes. The Americans and the Canadians. The British and the French. The Germans and the French. Hell, everyone and the French!
It seems that every nationality out there has some kind of rivalry with another. Some of those are good spirited and humorous, others (especially when it comes to sports, damn Swedes...) less so.

Your task for the upcoming fortnight is to write up a story revolving around a national rivalry, be it a comedic one or a dead serious one.

Points are awarded in the following categories:
Best Rivalry: The most interesting or unimaginable pairing of nations, or perhaps the reason of the rivalry itself.
Best Writing: Grammar, structure, clarity and word choice.
Best Story: The one tale of rivalries that most entertained or educated the reader.

Bonus point:
If your tale is based on a historical or ongoing real-world national rivalry, and you provide a source for it to prove you didn't just make it up, you get a single (1) free point in your final scoring!
(It is not REQUIRED to write of a real-world rivalry. You just pass up on the one (1) free point if you opt for a more imaginative setting. Remember: truth is often more fanciful than fiction!)

Deadline for submissions is Sunday 24th of June at 23:59 GMT.
Deadline for voting shall be Friday 29th of June at 23:59 GMT (to maximize voting time and allow next competition to be started in the weekend).
« Last Edit: 03 Jul 2018, 22:19 by WHAM »
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Baron

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - National rivalries
« Reply #1 on: 18 Jun 2018, 03:53 »
I'm actually going to put some serious thought into this, starting right now. :)

Sinitrena

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - National rivalries
« Reply #2 on: 22 Jun 2018, 21:08 »
A Flag of Discord


Who cares where you are from? It was always their motto. They got along great, two families that were strangers where they lived here in Germany. They greeted each other when they met. Their children played with each other. When they celebrated a birthday, they invited each other. In short, they had stepped over the border between mere neighbourhood and had become friends.

It started harmless, as all fights tend to do: a noisy look into the neighbour’s garden, a wrong word at the wrong time, a car parked in another‘s spot.

In this case, it was a flag in front of a window. Ismet put it there in the morning, attached to a flagpole that reached into the alleyway between the two houses. It flapped gently in a breeze.

Well, maybe not so gently. At least, Ioannis didn’t think so. You see, his wife, Despina, had a headache that day, a migraine that started the day before. The drilling in the morning to attach the flagpole to the side of the house was already pretty annoying. But neighbours have to work on their houses from time to time, right? And they are usually done in a reasonable amount of time, aren’t they? And Ioannis and Despina did work late into the night and usually slept in, so they did keep an unusual schedule.

Ioannis didn’t care about the drilling that much. But then it was replaced by the flapping and whipping of the heavy cloth of the flag when he and his wife tried to get a few more hours of sleep. Despina moaned loudly when the noise just wouldn’t stop. And as is a well known fact, when you are already annoyed by something, no matter how minor it is, and it just won’t stop, you get more and more irritated.

They only had two hours left before they had to return to their restaurant, and besides, the flag wouldn’t stop on its own ever.

So Ioannis went over to his neighbour’s door and rung the doorbell. But Ismet’s and Aysel’s little grocery store had opened about an hour ago and nobody answered. Deniz also wasn’t home.

When Ismet and Aysel came home from work, they found their flag neatly folded on their front porch, a heavy garden gnome, one of their own, was lying on the star and stretching its legs towards the moon as if it were presented – dead - on a stage.

The wind had knocked the gnome over and blown away the note Ioannis left behind. But Ismet did not know that, of course.

That evening, there was shouting heard in their living room. Well, Deniz, their son, did not hear it, because he was still at work as an apprentice cook in a Greek restaurant. Sometimes, nepotism is a good thing. What better way to get your son his dream job but to ask your long-time neighbours?

But Aysel certainly did hear the yelling. She tried to calm her husband down, but it just didn’t work. He could not let such disrespect to his flag stand.

For the longest time, Ioannis and Despina had their front door painted blue and white. Helena, the name of their restaurant, stood there in fake Greek script and underneath was a little map and the business hours. It was free advertising and nobody minded. As a matter of fact, it had a certain charm and the restaurant, just a block away, was the meeting point of the neighbourhood.

They usually came home at around one in the morning after cleaning and closing. Deniz walked with them. After all, they had the same way. They reached his house first and wished him a good night.

The porch light came on and at the same moment a gust of wind sent the smell of paint over to them. The door was red.

Of course Ioannis knew who had done this. Not least of all because the flag was – again – hanging lifeless and unmoving in the summer night. Again, yelling was heard in one of the two houses.

Of course this happened because they were Greek and their neighbours Turkish, didn’t it? It was a quarrel as old as time itself. This was the reason. There was no other explanation.

Well, reality becomes a minor inconvenience when emotions begin to boil hot and heavy. And minor faults seem so much more important than they really are.

He wasn’t late for the first time, but what are five minutes between friends? He worked hard, after all. And it was the trains fault. He couldn’t even leave earlier, school just didn’t leave out earlier. And he was dedicated to his job. On the other hand, there was too much salt in the soup but you can correct this, can’t you? And he just started this job. You must spoil before you spin, and all that. And that the knife broke in his hand really wasn’t his fault. He did clean up and made absolutely sure that no part of the blade landed in the food.

But what is truth? When you are angry, it is easy to find fault where there is little.

Ioannis wanted to fire Deniz right then and there. He screamed at him, he hit the wall next to him. Despina had to pull him away. Maybe nepotism isn’t such a good idea.

Normally, Aysel and Ismet ate every Friday after the Jumu’ah at the Helena. It was a tradition for more than seven years, ever since the restaurant opened. Every week, like clockwork, they came there, and only during Ramadan they changed their usual time to later. If one of them got sick, the other still came, so ingrained in their rituals was it by now.

That week, they did not come. Deniz, who never was very religious, waited for his parents to spend his lunch with them, but to no avail. Their table, reserved without any official agreement, stayed empty.

Of course, Ioannis perceived it as scorn.

Hadn’t he mentioned just a few weeks ago that they planned to extend their hours, that they meant to expand in the small way a family-own restaurant can? And now they lost clients. Did Ismet incite his friends to go eat somewhere else? Was there gossip and slander?

After that, who did what when got a bit blurry. There was something about a keyed car; another car driving through a front lawn; something about a call to the health office because a store selling fresh vegetables had rats; a broken window. In short, it got out of hands, had gotten out of hands long ago.

They’ll talk again in front of a judge in a few weeks. It is the only way they talk now.

Meanwhile, the flag still hangs in the gently blowing wind, long forgotten.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jumu'ah is the prayer held on fridays at noon in mosques. Ramadan is the month of fasting in the muslim calendar. I'm not Muslim and do not know all that much about Islam, so if I did use those words wrong, I apologize. But as I only mention them, I hope I'm fine.

The relations between Greece and Turkey are not exactly great. No idea if it fits the definition of rivalry (or if my story does, for that matter.)

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wow, that was so not my topic. I drew a complete blank for the longest time.

WHAM

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - National rivalries
« Reply #3 on: 23 Jun 2018, 12:19 »
Huzzah, an entry! I was worried the unusual topic might deter entries entirely, but we now have one, and Baron has stated they are already working on something, so things might turn interesting after all.

A little more time left, people! Time to dig up those bitter grudges!
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JudasFm

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - National rivalries
« Reply #4 on: 24 Jun 2018, 15:27 »
I was worried the unusual topic might deter entries
To be honest, the bonus point for real life rivalries was what deterred me. I liked the topic a lot, but openly giving preferential treatment to one type of entry as opposed to another kind of put me off entering :(

Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - National rivalries
« Reply #5 on: 24 Jun 2018, 22:10 »
I have an idea I'm working on, I'll see if I can find the time to write it down.

Baron

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - National rivalries
« Reply #6 on: 25 Jun 2018, 02:05 »
I've had a busy weekend and haven't been able to devote any time to writing. :tongue:  Any chance of a couple day extension?

Wiggy

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - National rivalries
« Reply #7 on: 25 Jun 2018, 05:23 »
Alas, once more into the fray dear friends. Comedy is the hardest of the genres, so I apologise in advance.

I dinnae think ye ken, but at the very bottom of the world lay two nations. Don't bother looking them up 'coz
I'll tell all aboot them the noo.
First one is fuckin' huge and is called 'Straya, the second is split into two islands, and is collectively
known as "Nu Zulland". The two nations are extremely similar, and to some extent are co-dependant, which leads
to dreadful animosity. You see, the closer you are, the more you hate.

From 12,000 miles away the internal battle in what was once "Yugoslavia" were two warring cultures that used
different alphabets. Two square-headed knife-wielding garlic-sausage-munching Yugoslav bastards going at each
other, and someone wanted to stop this. What the ...?
Anyhoo, to important thingys, and the goings on doonunder.The rivalry between the two grew to a state of show
down. The Prime Mincer of 'Straya declared a competion, as opposed to a war. The first nation to land 38,000
people in Antarctica by kayak would be granted the "Silver Knob" award, and would for ever be held in highest
esteem. The gauntlet, having been thrown, was gathered in earnest by the Prime Mincer of Nu Zulland who
declared, "Launch the fleet!"

Six weeks later, the only survivor paddled ashore at Mawson station. The 'Strayan Prime Mincer greeted him with the words:

"You stupid cunt."
« Last Edit: 26 Jun 2018, 08:28 by Wiggy »

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - National rivalries
« Reply #8 on: 25 Jun 2018, 11:53 »
As we are below 3 entries, I am granting Baron a brief extension by moving the deadline out to midnight of 26th. That means you have today and tomorrow to write, mister!

Make it count! :)
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Sinitrena

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@Wiggy: I'm glad mine isn't the only entry so far, but what's with the strange paragraphs? A paragraph does not end in the middle of a sentence. It's acceptable on my laptop where the screen is wider then the paragraphs are long but on my tablet it just looks weird - and is difficult to read. Would you mind editing it? Or at least pay attantion to it for futur entries? (I just assume it's not intended for story-telling purposes.) :)

And everyone else: Write! I want more competition! :-*

I've had this idea for a long time, but not gotten around to writing it down until now.
I suppose this is more of a horror story than your typical war story, but it's set in a real historical conflict.

The fiend in the cave

The learned academics and scholars of my age would no doubt call me mad if they were to read my account of the event and dismiss it as ravings more befit a patient of Bedlam than a decorated officer such as myself,
yet I am no less certain of what I saw than I would be of the very pen I am writing with.

It was during my service in her majesty's army I encountered the fiend. Stationed in a barren and primitive land full of mountains as jagged and ridged as the back of an ancient dragon, still ruled by fear and superstition and far away from the structured and civilized world I knew, in a land that brought even Alexander the Great to a halt in his vast conquests, I came to question the natural rules that I had previously taken for granted.

I was tasked with leading a company of sepoy soldiers through a mountain pass, a task which I only completed after sustaining heavy losses. Despite the numerous good men who fell under my command that day I harbor few feelings of regret, as I recognize there was little I could have done to prevent their deaths. When the terror struck we found ourselves on all sides surrounded by walls of bare rocks and mountainsides, having little choice but to walk alongside the only path available, a narrow dirt road cutting deep between the mountains. But while these natural walls confined us to the path, they also offered few places where men could hide in ambush unseen.

It all changed when we reached a sharp turn in the path, and the young lad walking furthest at the front suddenly fell down to the boom of an enemy sniper's rifle. Still alive, the boy screamed out in pain while clutching his stomach, his bright red coat revealing a darker red stain slowly growing across his abdomen. Before I could stop him one of the boy's comrades had already rushed out to the aid of him, only for a jet of blood to shoot out the back of his turban to the sound of another gunshot. The injured boy kept screaming as I realized that devil had deliberately only wounded him in order to draw out the other man rushing to his aid, and he would allow his screams to torment us until yet another man could take it no more and would rush out in a desperate attempt to save him.

I ordered the men to stay put and nobody try to rescue the boy, doomed to soon bleed out regardless of what we did from now on. By my command the men would carefully attempt to spot the sniper from behind the cover provided by the rock-wall at the turn of the path, and when one of them spotted gun smoke coming out from a small crevice at the top of a nearby peak, they were to take turns shooting at the enemy from behind cover.
A normal man would have either crouched down behind cover once the gunshots started flying so close to his position or perished soon thereafter, but that man, if I may call him that, ignored them completely, and kept firing his rifle, killing several more men as they peeked around the corner to shoot. By that time I was furious, and still under the illusion that it was a mortal man, if ever more capable than I would normally deem a native of this land, I started to draw up a new plan. The bulk of the men would stay in the path, still behind cover and shooting at the sniper, but taking greater care than before. Shooting him was no longer the priority, instead they were to draw his fire and attention away while I and two men of my choosing would attempt to climb the steep cliffside and reach the sniper from behind.

Perhaps it was reckless of me to leave my men behind, but I was a better climber than any of my subordinate officers and I wanted to personally kill the man who had humiliated me and killed my men in such a sadistic manner. It was an arduous climb to be sure, but my rage kept me going and I was soon too occupied with thoughts of revenge that I barely noticed that the gunshots from the crevice had stopped and the snipers rifle slid back into the darkness of its opening.

Upon reaching the small peak I discovered that there was a small cave entrance that no doubt led to the crevice in which our enemy hid, but the curious thing was that it was blocked by a large rock I doubted could be removed from within. I ordered the two men I brought with me to remove the stone, but as they both started to roll it away a shot was fired from within the opening, instantly killing one of them and injuring the other so that he lost his balance and tumbled to his death on the rocks far below.
I was alone now, and in equal parts madness and rage I leapt in front of the opening and emptied my revolver into the ragged gestalt facing me before he could reload. When I descended back to the remaining men on the path I told them I had killed the sniper, but I secretly doubted that I did, and that I ever truly could.

For there was only one being to be found in that small cave, and as I looked at the body slumped down on the floor, still clutching the rifle which had killed so many of my men,  dressed in bleached tatters hanging off his body, his turban partially unraveled and almost covering the two black holes where his eyes should be, I realized in horror that I was looking at the dried out corpse of a man that had been dead long before I shot him.

Wiggy

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Sorry Sinitrena, i just did a "cut and paste". I hope it's all fixed now.

Baron

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The Hubris of A

   He'd seen his fair share of diplomatic spats, that's for sure.  Iran-Contra was a big one, between the theocracy that used to be Persia and one of them banana republics in Central America.  Sure, some of them flamingo-pink journalists tried to hype-up the role of the USA in the whole affair, but he knew better.  Back then he had an insider perspective from the CIA.  Or was he with the NSA back in '85?  To keep a low profile he'd switched agencies more often than a Spaniard switched dance partners.  But the alphabet soup of the agency merry-go-round didn't matter.  What mattered was that he was a covert diplomatic enforcer for the greatest nation on god's green Earth.  He was Jed Colic; spy, lover, geriatric, and all-American.

   He scratched the three-day-old stubble on his chin thoughtfully, wondering where he'd put his dentures.  Some of the young cowboys down in ops called him a dinosaur, but you couldn't put a price on his decades of experience.  Especially not with the wacky inflation numbers those hippies down at the Treasury Department kept putting out.  But whenever there was an international crisis the big brass knew who to call.  Suddenly a wrinkled face with the air of authority appeared before him.

   “Dagnabit, Fred!  How'd you get into my clipboard?!”  Jed spun the eighth-inch thick panel in his hands, marvelling at what they could do down in Q Division these days.

   “Jesus, Jed.  It's a fucking tablet.  And Fred retired twelve years ago.  I'm Charles Greenwood, acting Assistant Deputy Junior Director of the CSO, and your boss.”

   Crumb Muffins!  Was he working for the Bureau of Conflict and Stabilization Operations again?  Cud sucking State Department wankers....

   “Colic!  Are you following me?” his boss barked, bringing him back out of the rabbit hole.  “We've got a serious crisis down in Bolivia.  I'm pairing you with an Agent Zuazo, the local field commander with UNODC.”

   “What?!?” Colic spat, discovering that his dentures had been in his mouth the whole time.  “You're putting me in the hands of some spic hombre down in jolly Narco Land?!  I thought Uncle Sam didn't do kamikaze runs?”

   “Don't lose your cool, Jed,” Assistant Deputy Junior Director Greenwood growled.  “Agent Zuazo is reputedly very competent for a foreigner.  Only he's not an hombre, at least not as you or I would understand it.”

   Jed just stared, gob-smacked.  “You mean he's a... she?”

   “Used to be, I think.  And he's not a spic.  Nationality is listed as 'citizen of the world'.”

   “The world?!?”

   “Yeah.  I never heard of it either.  I think it's somewhere between Rage-istan and Outer Elbonia.  You can read the brief on the plane.  You leave at 1600.  Greenwood out.”

   Jed shook his head in disbelief.  He was getting too old for this kind of wacky advent-

   “Agent Colic!  Are you all right?”

   “What?!  Who are you?”

   A brown-complexioned latina with a big Adam's apple stared at him quizzically from heavily mascaraed lashes.  “Did you just blank out?” she asked, waving her hand across his line of vision.

   “What?!”  He looked around, blinking.  He was in an SUV bouncing over a rough jungle road.  Damn beaners must have slipped him some funky grass at the airport, causing him to trip out.  He shook the cobwebs from his mind and reasserted his American dominance.  “Listen, lady.  I need to speek-ah to agent Zuazo.  Do you know where I can findy him?”

   The lady in front of him squinted, revealing vast amounts of blue glitter eye-shadow.  “Let's get a few things straight, agent Colic,” she said in a wispy voice with a vaguely foreign accent.  “I'm not a lady.  I am in fact agent Zuazo, and you may refer to me as that.  My preferred pronouns are ze and zir.  And if you pull any of your arrogant bull-headed yankee mind-farts on me again I'm going to have to kick you out of this moving vehicle.”

   “Ze and zir?!?” he laughed.  “What the hell is ze and z-”

   Suddenly he was outside the vehicle, the familiar slow-mo haze of shell-shock allowing him to recall his tuck-and-roll training from Viet Nam.  In the blink of an eye he was back up on his feet and careening face first into tree.  Fortunately his absurdly thick glasses absorbed most of the shock.  He reached for his handy .44 Magnum, only to find his dentures slung snugly in the holster at his hip.  No matter.  He'd brought down that tiger back in Guam with an improvised bow and arrow made from his suspender straps.  Taking the piss out of this frisky little drag queen would be a walk in the park compared to that.  He rummaged around on the roadside until he found a good length stick, and then tied his shoe to the end.

   Meanwhile the convoy had stopped.  Agent Zuazo stuck her head out the window.  “What the hell are you doing?!?” she shouted.

   He ducked back into the roadside brush, stripping quickly to the waist and painting himself with fragrant mud pellets that he found on the forest floor.  He swallowed a neon-blue caterpillar that he found on a tree to help numb his pain receptors, then washed it down with some stagnant water from a puddle that he filtered through his right sock to strain out the ringworm eggs.  He found a machete in the hand of a baffled local, which he used to carve a rifle out of a shovel handle (also from the baffled local).  Finally he tied his belt around his head, to keep the shell-shock from wussing him up.

   “Agent Colic!” she shouted from the roadside.  “We don't have time for your bewildering American paranoia!  Put your clothes back on and come back to reality.  We have some real bad guys to catch!”

   He/she wasn't going to take him alive!  He'd spent six years in a Viet Cong latrine tank because he refused to surrender his liberty.  What was a couple minutes in the bush?  These kids these days had no patience.  Her would get antsy about keeping some internet schedule and would come bungling in after him, and then he'd ambush she like a polka band in Wisconsin.

   He could see through the trees the SUV reverse and come to a stop where he had entered the forest.  Through the dense foliage he could make out the slender form of agent Zuazo as him emerged from the vehicle.  “I'm going to count to five,” they announced.  “Then I'm going to come in there and pants you.  The Narcos will find it fucking hilarious when they find your pasty mosquito-swollen carcass.”  The local villager nodded at him smugly, so he knocked him out with a karate chop to the shin.  The local spat at him and retreated further into the forest.

   “One,” called agent Zuazo in a bored tone.  “Two....three......”

   Bring it on! he thought.  Soon this second-rate third-world hussy would learn not to mess with the awesome power of America.  There would be no kowtowing appeasement this time.  Only righteous fire and wrath.  Shock and awe, Baby!  Shock and awe!

   “Five!”  That last number caught him entirely off guard, as agent Zuazo had suddenly appeared behind him.  Reflexively he swung his stick-shoe at her, but the range was too short and it ended up swinging back and hitting him in the face.  Before he knew it his pants were off and the SUV was peeling off again down the road.  A cool breeze of freedom stirred the flag, and for the first time Jed Colic regretted his habit of going commando.  The local was back with a few of his buddies, all nodding smugly again.

Mandle

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A COLORFUL JOKE

Red, White, and Blue walked into a bar.

The barman said "Sorry, we don't serve just any old colors in here."

White tried to trick the barman by standing in front of Red with his arms held out.

But this attempt went "Swissh" straight over the barman's head.

So they tried lining up side by side.

The barman said "I can't believe you even had the Gaul to try that!"

Finally they laid down one on top of the next.

As he started pouring their drinks, the barman said "I'm gonna be in Dutch with the wife for this but..."

Add spoiler tag for Hidden:
DISCLAIMER: I just wrote this joke but not sure if even I think it's funny or even makes sense. Just imagine Fozzie Bear telling it if that helps...
« Last Edit: 27 Jun 2018, 15:29 by Mandle »

WHAM

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Dammit, sorry guys, I know I'm late.
I got out of hospital in the weekend and have been pretty out of it since, cycling between pain and painkiller-induced blur.

Anyway, deadline IS up and the contestants are as follows:

Mandle
A COLORFUL JOKE

Baron
The Hubris of A

Blondbraid
The fiend in the cave

Wiggy
Nu Zulland (Story had no name, so I gave it one)

Sinitrena
A Flag of Discord

Please hand out your votes, one vote per category, as follows:
Best Rivalry: The most interesting or unimaginable pairing of nations, or perhaps the reason of the rivalry itself.
Best Writing: Grammar, structure, clarity and word choice.
Best Story: The one tale of rivalries that most entertained or educated the reader.

Once all scores are tallied on the night of 1st of July, I will also check each story for a link to a source that confirms it has some relation to a real world or historical rivalry of some kind, so you can get that tasty, tasty extra point in the end!
May the best story win!

(I will abstain from voting because holy hell is my mind a mess right now...)
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Sinitrena

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WHAM: I hope you're feeling better soon and it is nothing too serious.

Wiggy: I don't think we have the same kind of humour. I honestly just thought your story was weird, not funny. Why is there a detour to Yugoslavia that has nothing to do with the rest of the story? From what point of view is it told? It's just strange. Still, I think it comes closest to the spirit of the competition, depicting a rivalry between nations.

Blondbraid: Well written little story. The only problem I see is that it doesn't deliver what it promisses: "The learned academics and scholars of my age would no doubt call me mad if they were to read my account of the event and dismiss it as ravings more befit a patient of Bedlam" There really is very little out of the ordinary, and when it finally shows up it's not really the focus at all. A sharpshooter is not impossible, wounding instead of outright killing is not completely out of the ordinary when it comes to war and the twist - that was really projected miles wide beforhand - could be explained away very easily.

Baron: Great character, no doubt about it. Your story as a whole had very little to do with the topic though, in my opinion. We have someone suffering from PTSD (well, suffering, if this were a serious story, of course), gender confusion and an all around absurd situation ensuing because of it. But it is of absolutely no consequence where it happens or what nations take part in the incident.

Mandle: I groaned. So, goal achived, I think?



Best Rivalry:Wiggy

Best Writing: Baron

Best Story: Blondbraid


Blondbraid: Well written little story. The only problem I see is that it doesn't deliver what it promisses: "The learned academics and scholars of my age would no doubt call me mad if they were to read my account of the event and dismiss it as ravings more befit a patient of Bedlam" There really is very little out of the ordinary, and when it finally shows up it's not really the focus at all. A sharpshooter is not impossible, wounding instead of outright killing is not completely out of the ordinary when it comes to war and the twist - that was really projected miles wide beforhand - could be explained away very easily.
Thanks for the feedback! I was pretty tired when I wrote down and submitted the entry, if I hadn't waited until the last day I'd probably have examined the story more closely and improved the foreshadowing,
but I'm glad you liked it otherwise.

Best Rivalry: Sinitrena, since it was a sad and realistic tale of a neighbor feud escalating much too far. At least none of them ate yogurt...

Best Writing: Wiggy, while I agree with Sinitrena that the Yugoslavia part was unnecessary, it brought across a wacky feeling and I could imagine it being read in a funny Australian accent.

Best Story:  Baron, I couldn't help but laugh at the story, it was very entertaining.

As for Mandle's story, I understood the joke, though it would probably have worked better as a visual sketch than a written joke.

Wiggy

  • From the tropical north Queensland
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There is a Bette Midler song called "From A Distance". As I write, I am as far away from all of you as I can be, and that is simple geography. I live in a peaceful part of the world, and thanks to news services I see the endless and pointless conflagrations erupting daily. National conflict could be contained on a cricket field, where Aussies vs. Kiwis vs. England, South Africa, India and Pakistan (The last two being the most vehement) can be won and lost with constant joy to all spectators and participants.

Nations vs. nations died out in the 19th century, and so many conflicts have ensued with politics and ideologies clashing (thanx to Billy Bragg for that line) and it needs a halt. Nations have become blocs, ideology rules those blocs, people suffer immensly, and the rich get richer, the poor get the picture.

My reference to Yugoslavia was from a distance. Needless deaths occurred due to minor conflicts, and the problem is that they will occur again whereever there is intolerance.

Mind you, there is also no right for people to walk onto your land and claim it as their own. Surely every human has a right to their dominion, and those that hold the land will assess them. Not everyone that wants help deserves it, and some people that flee a conflict are cowards who could, but didn't, stand up against oppressors.

Anyway, my vote is 1 each to WHAM, Sinitrena, and Baron, I loved all stories - probably Sinitrena's the most - you are a gifted storyteller, and yes, we don't share a sense of humour.

Cheers


Sinitrena

  • Mittens Serf
  • Wheel of Fate
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Anyway, my vote is 1 each to WHAM, Sinitrena, and Baron, I loved all stories - probably Sinitrena's the most - you are a gifted storyteller, and yes, we don't share a sense of humour.

That can't be correct, WHAM's the admin this time, no story from him. ;)
And thanks for the compliment.

Wiggy

  • From the tropical north Queensland
    • I can help with play testing
    •  
    • I can help with proof reading
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    • I can help with translating
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    • I can help with voice acting
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Sorry again Sinitrena, I miscounted.

I guess that means you get an extra vote from me.