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Oooooo!  That post with one minute left of injury time almost gave me a heart attack.  Still, a tie is a tie!

Jul-10   20:00   Portugal  1  vs  1 France

Jul-6   20:00   Portugal   1   vs   1   Wales
Jul-7   20:00   Germany   2   vs   2   France

Congratulations, WHAM.  Well deserved!

Jun-30   20:00   Poland   1   vs   1   Portugal
Jul-1   20:00   Wales   1   vs   2   Belgium
Jul-2   20:00   Germany   2   vs   1   Italy
Jul-3   20:00   France   2   vs   1   Iceland

[WHAM!]

Three very different approaches to the topic.

I liked Sinitrena's very sparing use of words, rationing them out in small, tight parcels like they were endangered.

I liked Mandle's creepy idea of a city of inexplicably scarred people.  It leaves all kinds of questions unanswered: details were ....scarce.

I am ever the fan-boy of WHAM's eloquent writing style and his sci-fi scenarios.  It was awesome that the blue-collar folks actually won a round when it really counted.

I have to say that I am a little bit disappointed in the scarcity of the word "diaphanous" in the valid entries.

So with only one vote I guess I have to decisively decide in favour of the person I am going to decide to vote for.  After much hemming and hawing, and a bit of hewing and hoeing as well, I think I've got to drop the vote bomb: WHAM!  His entry pushed all the right buttons for me: class struggle, hubris, apocalyptic disaster, inversion of typical fates, and celebrities clawing out each other's eyes while being scantily-clad enough to show off their toned abs and boob jobs.  Yep, I think that's just about everything on the checklist to my heart.    

Since we're pinching pennies with only one buck, are we allowed to spend a few cents here and a few cents there?

I vote for Ponch, best gosh dang contest administrator ever.

To start, I've got no horse in this race.  But I find it interesting that my normal source of the pulse of global political sentiment (i.e. the AGS forums) has nothing to say on the matter.  Is this a sign of a collective shrug?  What about the inherent democratic deficit of the European Union?  What about the racist tinge of the Leave campaign?  What does it mean to be European?  What do the Scots have to say on the matter?

For me, I honestly didn't see the point in all the paranoia about well-qualified or highly industrious immigrants coming to the country to subsidise the local slackers, but then my country is just a hodge-podge of anyone who bothered to show up, so I have a hard time appreciating nativist sentiment.  On the other hand, as a person I do my best to have as little as possible to do with governments and regulations (don't tell the building inspector), so I appreciate the sentiment of wanting to cast off the burden of an extra level of bureaucracy.  But I want to hear honestly from the Brits and the Euros: what's the real motivation for this Brexit thing, and how's it all gonna shake down?

Wow!  Such largess in these trying times!   All's I needed was just one day:

The Value of Nothing

   Milos planned his ascent carefully, climbing the sharp rocks up the steep sea-cliffs.  His stomach churned with the risk-aversion of an actuarian, but his accountant's mind was already totting up the rewards this risky venture would yield.  His guts protested, like a biological altimeter about to turn inside-out at height, but his tongue was already salivating over the warm meal his boldness would earn him.  Daring venture or fool's errand?  His naked body was obviously split on the matter, but sheer desperation tipped the scales in favour of derring-do.  Desperate times, after all, called for desperate measures.

   And there was nothing if not desperation on this floating prison in the middle of the ocean.  Sure, they weren't behind bars and the weather was blessedly clement, but there the luxury stopped.  Food was scarce but for the occasional drone drop - quickly acquired by the upper echelons of the inmate hierarchy â€" and whatever could be gleaned from the scrubby brush onshore and the shallow lagoon off-shore.  Clothes were unknown, metal tools were unknown; medicine, books, and technology were unknown.  All they had was what could be fashioned from crude stone tools or woven grasses, sea shells, and the plastic debris of civilization that occasionally washed up on shore. 

   But material goods, though scant, were not even the worst of their woes.  There was a fundamental lack of security in an unpoliced penal colony.  Yes, the men of Seven (as the floating island was demarcated) had their own rough code of honour and justice, but it was scant comfort to the vast majority who lacked the hierarchical connections or rare skills to stay easily on the right side of it.  For most inmates daily life was a constant struggle to provide for the now and pay off the debts of poor-providence past.  On the life-ledger of supply and demand, poor Milos the accountant found himself rather sadly in the camp of over-supplied mouths to feed and with a skill set for which there was virtually no demand.

   And so he was left to scavenge.  The rough terrain of the island itself was carved up informally by various groups and gangs, with the best fruit and nut trees jealously guarded.  For anyone without connections that left the narrow band of lagoon under which a shelf of the floating island stretched out toward an artificial reef about half a mile from shore.  But even this over-fished and over-harvested band of sand and coral had its own territorial claims, especially in the more accessible areas.  So the weakest and the lowliest were compelled either to pay extortionate tribute on their meagre gleanings, or were forced to the remotest and most marginal waters.  This was Milos, first the former and now, in hungry and naked desperation, the latter.

   Today the left side of the island was leeward and holding, for which he was grateful, as the gusts and spray coming off the surf during windward days made climbing the rocks slippery and treacherous.  The island had a left side, right side, front and back since it spun depending on the currents, making cardinal directions fluid.  Milos had heard that an ex-astronomer had worked out from the stars that the island and its neighbours traced a slow circle of empty ocean, probably by means of giant rudders working the natural currents, but it was all just hearsay as far as he was concerned.  Who had time to sit around and chart the stars, anyway?

   Milos heaved himself up a particularly steep bit of rock, briefly cursing the weight of the successful foray strapped to his back with grass-rope.  He had found a large bed of clams in the middle of the lagoon, and a good haul of hard plastic as well: he had found less in a whole week sometimes.  The clams would feed him well for a couple days, provided he could sneak them past any tribute-seeking toughs, while the plastics would fetch him a good price at market.  It was hard in a world without money to precisely calculate the value of his haul, but it was probably worth about four days' worth of subsistence labour, or most of the remaining value of the debt he'd racked up to the Benneton Boys back when he'd fell ill with jungle fever.

   Milos smiled at the prospect of finally paying off the debt.  Perhaps he could now accumulate a small surplus and get into the lending business himself?  He was at home in the world of lending rates and fractional banking, after all.  Accumulate enough of other people's debt and one could live off the interest.  And that was the high life no matter how complex one's society.  Fortune always shined on men who already had fortune to lend.  Wealth begat ever greater wealth: it was a sad universal truth.  Soon it would be his turn to bask in Fortune's glow.

   And then the rock under Milos' right food suddenly gave way, and he sliced his shin on the exposed edge.  Milos grunted at the pain, but dared not assess how badly he was cut.  Not yet.  Now only one thing mattered: holding on.  He waited, motionless, fearing for the stability of the rock around him.  Three seconds, four seconds, five seconds.  Was he really that high already?  Then there was a great thunderous splash, visible no doubt to anyone in the vicinity.  So much for secrecy.

   Milos waited a bit longer, wondering if the warm feeling down his leg was blood or just him pissing himself at height.  Wondering how he'd finance a proper salve to stop the jungle bacteria from infecting the wound.  Wondering how a single rock had made so much of a splash.  It was that last thought that finally had him glance down, and to his surprise he saw beyond his gashed leg a newly exposed ledge on which to rest.  Carefully he lowered himself down, tentatively testing the new surface with his weight until he was sure it was stable.  With relief he set down his haul for the day and perched himself carefully away from the edge.

   His leg didn't look too bad: it was a long cut, yes, but shallow.  He gazed out over the lagoon to the circular reef surrounding the island and the open ocean beyond.  In the distance he could make out the peaks of similar islands, ten or more miles away as far as anyone could reckon.  Eerily similar, in shape and distribution.  So much so that he could imagine a desperate fellow similar to himself perched on a similar cliff gazing back across the impassible currents towards him, perhaps with a similar bundle of clams and recycling.  Maybe the guy had also been busted for tax fraud or some equally victimless crime.  Or maybe it was a woman on that cliff, desperately seeking a nice predictable bean-counter in this penal world of murderers and gang-bangers?  He'd heard the rumours that some of the islands were populated exclusively by women, but as no one had ever verifiably survived the crossing he supposed it was just so much fanciful musing.  Milos caught the glint of sun off a patrol drone skimming the waves about two miles off-shore and instinctively recoiled into the nook of rock like a hunted spider.

   They were watching.  Always.  He had to remember that.  How many rafts had he seen torpedoed out of the water?  How many swimmers' corpses washed up on the outer reef?  The other islands in the distance were just mirages in the desert of their desperation.  And dreams of fancy were a dangerous intoxicant on this inside-out hell-hole.  It was best to stay sober and labour carefully towards a substantive goal than to risk all for some fanciful big score.

   He steadied himself with his hand and that's when he felt it.  Not the sharp, rough rock but a smooth, cold surface.  Metal.  It was some sort of vent cover that had previously been concealed beneath the rock, probably with a small, natural looking cave as an outlet.  It was circular, less than a metre in diameter, punctuated by broad slats on which was written some identification number.  Milos felt around the perimeter of the vent cap and was amazed to find a simple latch.  In disbelief he popped it open, and the whole cover swung open on noiseless hinges.

   Now this was trouble.  Who knows what he could salvage from the belly of the beast?  But he had to weigh the possibilities against the danger of being caught.  He'd seen the drone strikes when his fellow prisoners started digging near the crater in a vain attempt to access a maintenance hatch.  But how much surveillance would there be on a simple vent shaft?  Milos studied his pathetic bundle of clams and refuse, trying to balance it on the scale in his mind with the scrap metal or even tools he might find up the shaft.  Metal!  This was a rare opportunity, to clear his debts and build up a favour-bank in one fell swoop.  The prospect was intoxicating.  He didn't have to think long: in moments he was crawling up the metal shaft.

   The interior of the shaft was smooth and polished.  It would be difficult to climb if it were not so narrow, allowing him to press against all sides at once with the friction of naked skin.  It was cool inside, at first uncomfortably so but soon he was grateful as the effort of climbing would otherwise have made him sweat and slip.  There was a noise streaming down the shaft, like the static reception of a nearing waterfall, or maybe the screaming of air forced through a tight gap or around a fast moving surface. 

   Suddenly his accountant's instincts wrenched his guts, and before he could even process the reasoning in his mind he was sliding full-speed back down the chute, the screaming air not receding but growing louder as he shot towards the light of the vent opening.  And then he was flying through the light a hundred feet in the air, just as the missile flashed by and sealed the shaft in a deafening explosion.  He was buffeted mid-air by the shock-wave, and he was struck in the shoulder and leg by small bullet-sized stones shot out by the impact.  But he would survive.  At least until the impact with the water below broke his bones and tried its best to drown him.  Desperation begat ever greater desperation: it was a sad universal truth.

God, it's like throwing darts in the dark.

Jun-25   14:00   Switzerland 1   vs   1   Poland
Jun-25   17:00   Wales   2   vs   0   N Ireland
Jun-25   20:00   Croatia   2   vs   2   Portugal
Jun-26   14:00   France   1   vs   0   Rep Ireland
Jun-26   17:00   Germany   2   vs   0   Slovakia
Jun-26   20:00   Hungary   0   vs   1   Belgium
Jun-27   17:00   Italy   1   vs   1   Spain
Jun-27   20:00   England   2   vs   1   Iceland

There was a scarcity of warnings that there were only 24 hours left.  Any chance of a short extension while I polish my monocle put the finishing touches on my entry?

Well, I'm not going to lie to you, it was a type-o.  But I thought I couldn't change it once submitted, so in my mind I was now backing Croatia.

[(7)]

(7) Once you have submitted a prediction for a game, it cannot be changed (unless you can convince me there is an extremely good reason for doing so).                           

Jun-21   20:00   Croatia   0   vs   -2   Spain

@Baron. Are Spain really going to score -2 goals against Croatia?

I understand that Spain has a very talented side: if anyone can do it, they can!

Er.... Since there was a rule against changing predictions, I assumed my Croatia over Spain prediction stood....   Also, judging by the above correspondence, I assumed you were cool with that.  Can I get a definitive ruling?

There appears to be a scarcity of entries lately....

[TROPHIES!!1!!]

Sorry I'm late with these again: I've really got to start finessing the end of the fortnight to coincide with when I have more spare time.

Now, on to TROPHIES!!1!!

With third place Haggis wins himself a bronze typewriter of pulpiness.  Each key stroke sounds like a gong and vibrates like a jackhammer!  

With second place Sinitrena wins herself a serial silver trophy.  This model not only writes great werewolf stories, but could also be used to slay them if you or a brawny sidekick possess the upper body strength to wield it as a weapon.

And finally, with first place, despite the on-going recounts and court battles, Ponch wins the golden typewriter.  You gotta hack out your next story gently on this model, since the soft keys will deform if you bang away on it like you normally do, as if you are possessed by a bewigged half-insane 18th century composer.   Think pacifist rainbow yogic thoughts while you type, P, and everything will be groooooovy.

Congratulations to all entrants once again. 

@Baron. Are Spain really going to score -2 goals against Croatia?

I understand that Spain has a very talented side: if anyone can do it, they can!

Blast!  I missed the first game....  My 24-1 blow-out prediction for Romania wouldn't have garnered many points anyway, I suppose.   I'm assuming the next game hasn't kicked off yet so here are my predictions:

Jun-11   14:00   Albania   0   vs   3   Switzerland
Jun-11   17:00   Wales   1   vs   1   Slovakia
Jun-11   20:00   England   1   vs   1   Russia
Jun-12   14:00   Turkey   1   vs   1   Croatia
Jun-12   17:00   Poland   2   vs   1   N Ireland
Jun-12   20:00   Germany   2   vs   0   Ukraine
Jun-13   14:00   Spain   2   vs   1   Czech Rep
Jun-13   17:00   Rep Ireland   1   vs   1   Sweden
Jun-13   20:00   Belgium   2   vs   1   Italy
Jun-14   17:00   Austria   1   vs   1   Hungary
Jun-14   20:00   Portugal   1   vs   0   Iceland
Jun-15   14:00   Russia   1   vs   1   Slovakia
Jun-15   17:00   Romania   2   vs   2   Switzerland
Jun-15   20:00   France   2   vs   1   Albania
Jun-16   14:00   England   4   vs   0   Wales (wildcard)
Jun-16   17:00   Ukraine   1   vs   1   N Ireland
Jun-16   20:00   Germany   1   vs   0   Poland
Jun-17   14:00   Italy   1   vs   1   Sweden
Jun-17   17:00   Czech Rep   0   vs   0   Croatia
Jun-17   20:00   Spain   2   vs   1   Turkey
Jun-18   14:00   Belgium   1   vs   0   Rep Ireland
Jun-18   17:00   Iceland   0   vs   1   Hungary
Jun-18   20:00   Portugal   1   vs   0   Austria
Jun-19   20:00   Romania   1   vs   1   Albania
Jun-19   20:00   Switzerland   1   vs   1   France
Jun-20   20:00   Russia   1   vs   4   Wales
Jun-20   20:00   Slovakia   1   vs   1   England
Jun-21   17:00   N Ireland   1   vs   3   Germany
Jun-21   17:00   Ukraine   1   vs   1   Poland
Jun-21   20:00   Croatia   0   vs   -2   Spain
Jun-21   20:00   Czech Rep   8   vs   3   Turkey
Jun-22   17:00   Hungary   1   vs   2   Portugal
Jun-22   17:00   Iceland   0   vs   1   Austria
Jun-22   20:00   Italy   1   vs   1   Rep Ireland
Jun-22   20:00   Sweden   1   vs   2   Belgium

I didn't think the story itself was bad, but the writing definitely needs to be tightened up.  I think it's the lack of discreet sentences at some points that make the piece most difficult to read/understand:

He opened the final door, which also was not diaphanous and thus I had guessed it would be the door to a room and not one behind which there existed the continuation of the corridor, he stood in front of it, told me to “please, go on”, and as I went inside the empty white room he closed the door abruptly and locked it.

This should be at least 2 sentences, and could easily be split into 4 or more.  Is the narrator rambling like this because he is crazy, or is this how "sentences" as we understand them run on in the Greek language?

Never trust a doctor with a cigar.  Ever.

Normally entries for this competition have to be original and unpublished.  Can we get a ruling from the Grand Poobah of Contest Administration on this?