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Post by Kaez on Oct 25, 2016 17:46:30 GMT -5
All three writers had only one hour to write a story based on the prompt "only one hour".
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Post by Injin on Oct 25, 2016 17:47:56 GMT -5
“Alright everyone, settle down” the teacher said, his eyes scanning the crowd. “It’s time for your midterm. Pick a question from the list of five in front of you. One question. I don’t want any of you answering two because you won’t have time to give it the depth the question deserves” he said, loudly, before moving on, “and no looking at anyone else’s papers. If I catch you, you fail the test, and I’ll HAVE to have a meeting with your parents. You have one hour. Begin.”
One hour. That’s all he had. George Abernathy had expected many things when he entered the prestigious Horus Academy, but, well, this felt almost ridiculous. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what he had to write about, but that he had to rigidly look at his paper alone unless he wanted to get an F, again, for just looking at the clock.
Which question, which question. He had to choose. Letting out a deep sigh, George went forth and crossed out B and E. Too many sub questions that didn’t let him actually explain anything. C was out because he had forgotten to read that chapter on Burgundy like he was supposed to and he didn’t want to even think about the Austrian inheritance of the Duchy and the Netherlands or whatever. So it was A or D. A question on the French efforts during World War 2 or the rise of Charlemagne. Both were things he had a decent grasp on, but he had to focus. Pick one, George. Pick.
Why did he have to pick AP French History? This was ridiculous. A. The French efforts during World War 2 was something he had at least some knowledge on before he even got into the class. Thank you old Call of Duty games.
Shaking his head, he crossed out the remaining letters and began. The Maginot line was built as a reaction to World War 1. Trench warfare had been a thing for a while, the last twenty years, in Europe, right? How many years between the two wars again? Damnit. He was sure he was right, but this question meant the difference between getting an A in the class or a C and he didn’t want to risk it by mentioning the wrong gap. Erasing that sentence, he focused on the importance, at first, of the French defenses of their eastern border. Their failure to challenge the German reannexation of the Ruhr valley area. The Rhineland had been an important demilitarized zone and by allowing it to fall to Hitler, France had decided to let the strong Germans roll over them. Metaphorically, at first.
Shit, George couldn’t say that. The teacher was French, wasn’t he?
The fall of the Ruhr was unavoidable due to the current thoughts of the French leadership at the time. The Germans were just taking their old territory back and the French didn’t really have any reason to stop them, at least that was the thought, considering that France didn’t want the territory and it was supposed to just be neutral land. No loss. Phew. Could be bad if he’d made it sound like the French were cowards. Stereotypes had no place here, especially if he didn’t want ol’ Cheese Breath in front of the classroom leering at him for the rest of the class.
Cheese breath. Lunch was next period. Pizza Friday, right? Cheesy, ch- damn it George stay together. Eating later, test taking now.
Then came the agreement with the Poles. Poland. Something about reciprocity? Was there anything in the deal about Poland coming to help France if it came to it? Damn, why couldn’t he remember that deal? Shit. Shit. Better just mention the whole “we attack, mon dieu, if you are assaulted, mon amie” shit and nothing else. Claiming something that isn’t true just to try to cover your bases did not fly with this guy.
And then Poland just gets fucked. Right Eifel Towered between the raging pricks of Germany and Russia. And, of course, this means war between Germany and France, with Great Britain rolling on in too. Until that doesn’t work. Poland is split between the Germans and the Russians and then France is just steamrolled. The Maginot line is useless and Paris falls in a few weeks or days? Was it day? No, weeks. Definitely weeks. Always fighting the last war, wasn’t that what the teacher said? George, stay on topic. You only have a half hour left.
Wait, what did France do next? Shit. George think. Something about Kirk? Star Trek? No, something like that. Kirk, why did he keep thinking of Captain Kirk? A fleet? Wait, that was it. The remnants of the French and British armies fled to Great Britain and Hitler just let em. Ordered they be left to retreat. For some reason. And the port was. Dunkirk? Right. Dunkirk. So those frogs and pieces of blood pudding flee to Great Britain and the mainland French become. German puppets? Something like that. Not all of it, though, if George could remember the maps right.
What was the name of the puppet government the Germans put up? Vicky? No, that was the nickname for Queen Victoria of England. Versaille was the palace, so that couldn’t be it. And the treaty. Should he mention the treaty? No, it wasn’t necessarily relevant at this point. He’d have to insert something into the earlier paragraph if he wanted credit though. Better write that down.
Vichy! Rhymes with Bitchy. Like his Aunt Carrol who complained about everything, or his dog, Carrol, who made a similar whining noise when she yawned. Aunt Carrol hated his dog. Gotta pick up some dog food on the way home.
“You have twenty minutes, class. Use them wisely.”
Shit. Shit shit shit shit. Finish the question George. You already outline this, didn’t you?
Stupid study sessions never seemed to pan out. The moment he was in class readying himself mentally for the test, the sort of sure knowledge that he had was out the window. Twenty minutes. Vichy France.
While France was Vichying, the south of France was still under the control of the guerrilla troops under the command of Gaul. De Gaul? De Gaulle. Right. No reaming for misspelling that, teach. What happened to the colonies France had? Right. Algeria and Morocco were. Wait, wasn’t Morocco Spanish? He shouldn’t have watched Casablanca last week. It was messing with him. Spain’s right there so of course it was Spanish. So. Uh. That had to be Spanish controlled then.
The rest of the French African territories more or less went to Vichy France as they controlled Paris and were the “legitimate” rulers of said colonies. Got that cleared up.
What was de Gaulle doing? Just hanging around France attacking the Germans wherever he could and the collaborators? ‘Heroically fighting back against their oppressors’, right. The teacher would get a kick out of that. Gotta make it clear that they were badasses. Battle of that, this, and uh. What was that last battle again, then, hmm. Right. The teacher loved to talk about Vic-something. Sounds like a beer brand? Vichtbund? No that was German-sounding. Vicors. Vicors Plateau, where the big Cheese’s grandpa died. Or something like that. He was around, though, so maybe not.
So the French guerrillas helped slow down the Germans as they prepared to repel the assault at Normandy. Some French troops arrived with the British invasion, wanting to take back the continent as some kind of hallowed and sacred return of sorts. Many conscripted French soldiers were among the German defenders, so that was sad. Only time he’d seen the teacher cry is when he mentioned his great uncle dying on Normandy after trying to be a conscientious objector. What did that mean again?
Shit. The clock. Ten minutes. He didn’t have much time left and- oh thank Christ. Teacher wasn’t looking.
The French, in combination with the other allied forces helped retake France from the Germans and de Gaulle represented France at most talks at that point. Right? As far as he was aware, none of the other parts of French leadership fled to exile or settled down fighting. At least nothing that was covered in class. Was it? No, nothing. Brain blank.
So the French helped the allies win World War 2. The general, de Gaulle, became leader of France after the war and was one of the countries that needed the most cleaning up afterwards. Throw in that thing the teacher said then. ‘De Gaulle could not have conceived that he would lose reelection to Mitterand given that he was a war hero. The protests, the hatred he caused. Mitterand’s leadership during the transition after the election solidified the legitimacy of the Fifth Republic in the eyes of the people of France despite his opposition to it initially.” Maybe it didn’t make sense to add that in, but he hopefully would get brownie points for that. As long as he made sure to not say the wrong, thing, of course. Wait, when did de Gaulle step down again?
“Time! Everyone, turn over your papers and pass them ahead of you.”
Thumping his head against his desk, he flipped over the paper and passed it forward. He probably forgot something. What did he forget to do? As the teacher dismissed everyone, George’s eyes scanned the classroom. Everyone looked exhausted. Not just him then.
As George stepped out to the hallway, he began to think about the test. What did he forget? Something important he had to do? The midterm was more or less 35% of the grade, so if he forgot anything at all it would be ba-oh no.
The Treaty of Versailles. Casablanca was right about Morocco. Mitterand DIDN’T win that election. Oh god.
Well. Hands against his locker, George slowly opened it up. Couldn’t do anything about it now. His eyes scanned the inside of the metal box, seeing his secret stash. Licking his lips at the thought of that sweet concoction, George shut the door. After he got his grade, maybe. For now, it was Lunch. Couldn’t get wasted during lunch.
It was Pizza Friday, after all.
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Sensar
Author
Homonecropedopheliac and Legal Property of AWR
Posts: 6,898
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Post by Sensar on Oct 25, 2016 17:48:28 GMT -5
An Evening Music floated down from the balcony above and behind me. A steady, gentle waltz. Pulses of three. My own feet began to shift in spite of themselves. A tap here, a slide there, a step then, a scuff now. Fingers twitched sympathetically with the melody.
“Pay attention, love, please be still,” said the artist. He was so hunched behind his canvas that I saw more of his back than any other feature. It was rather disconcerting how he bent and twisted in body, as if each stroke of the brush required a different physical manifestation of his musculature.
“I’m hardly a model,” I complained. “I’ve never been forced to sit so still for so long.”
“It’s barely been ten minutes,” came the muttered reply into the paint. He clearly was squeezing only the barest amount of brainpower to respond to me. I sighed, perhaps a little dramatically, and stilled my feet. My fingers still twitched along my legs.
“Your fingers, too,” he said. I wondered how he could even see me; he was so close to his canvas I could easily believe he was painting with his nose. Perhaps it was some sort of supernatural sense that artists tapped into in the midst of their work.
My fingers pressed into my legs in an effort to not move. If only the quartet was not playing so well, I wouldn’t feel this intense impulse to move. My eyes inherited their restless spirit. Surely that, at least, he would allow me, if only for a moment. At first, I tried to bounce them in time, but I only succeeded in making myself dizzy for a moment.
There was something about this whole nonsense that felt dreadfully insulting. Everyone dreams of sitting for a painting, of course, to have your likeness indelibly etched in smooth oil. But now that I was here, it felt as if I had to play more the role of the painting than myself. Stiffness was crawling into my joints and nestling there. Surely this impulse to dance was more me than any pose. I was now beginning to understand why portraits always seem so solemn. I don’t think I was truly being painted at all.
Not that the painter, mind you, would agree. A sheer necessity, he would insist no doubt. I am not skilled enough to capture the grace of your movement in the fleeting moments it occurs. It is the sorry nature of my eye, my hands, my mind that I cannot take this snapshot with one look.
I would not be happy about this, of course, but he spoke so eloquently, apologetically, and so warmly that I would have to accept. Of course, I would say, I understand completely. And yet I must do something, mustn’t I?
“You’re slouching,” came the dull, disgusting voice of the painter. I barely repressed an audible sigh as I straightened my back. Yes, this had seemed a much better idea only ten hours ago.
My eyes flitted around the garden. This setting, with its haze of sweet music, was at least some comfort to my numbing trial. Its centerpiece was behind the painter—a huge oak tree. Its broad and leafy limbs swept over us, filtering the amber glow of dusk in jagged, swirling patterns. I had joked to the painter when we first sat that I should be painted nestled in its branches, but he had insisted on the marble fountain’s edge, up against the walls of the manse. Underneath us was a well-kept lawn bursting with green grass. Scattered throughout us were small explosion of colors and shapes—a column of periwinkle, a patch of lavender there. During the day it was a field bright, cool color.
Now, much like my shoulders, they were wasting away with time. The orange of the setting sun was darkening and shifting their hue.
“Love,” I said. “Sweet, I need something to distract me. If I cannot dance to the music I must not listen to it. But this place is hardly a salon; it’s getting dark and colder. Tell me a story or something.”
There was silence for a moment. A pair of still-shockingly blue eyes and a sheaf of unkempt hair peered from around the edge of the painting. There were several splotches adorning his face—a bit of red at the temple, speckles of black underneath the left eye.
“Love,” he said, slowly, “I wish I could grasp the world in my eye, my hand, and my mouth all at once, to be able to express it all without a bit of concentration, let it flow. But I am no genius, I’m afraid. I want to carefully caress each part of your features with this brush. I want to capture not the flesh itself but the spirit that hovers just around it. But for now I need the base, and you must be still if you wish to see it done.”
My lips pressed into each other in spite of themselves. “That’s the most you’ve said to me all day.”
The blue eyes rolled back behind the painting. “Twelve minutes.”
The waltz rolled to a stop, and polite applause came pattering after it. What a bore to be sitting when I could be dancing. All those greying dullards just sat in chairs and bobbed their heads in time with the music, hiding the fact that the reason they’re eyes are closed is that they’re falling asleep. Not that I felt much better at the moment, I couldn’t even let me head rest. He had needed to see my neck.
The sun was getting lower now; I could feel the shadows of the leaves shifting on my face. The painter had noticed as well, I could hear him muttering under his breath.
“Is it getting too dark?” I teased gently. “Perhaps we will wait for this time tomorrow. Let’s go inside and dance and show the stuffy idiots that they’ve forgotten to how to be young.”
The canvas sighed again. At this rate it would have more of his annoyance at me painted into it than any sense of who I was.
“Very well. We’ll stop for now and start while the sun is still a bit higher tomorrow. It will, at the very least, take a half-hour. We’ll have ask Margaret to bring a book and read to you, or something.”
“That would be nice,” I said, shooting up. I flexed my body and yawned. “Ah! Good evening! What a pleasure it is to be alive!”
All the artist could do was grumble under his breath and he began to clean his things.
I walked past him to the oak and pressed my face against its rough bark. A cello began to sing from above and behind me, and my fingers danced in sympathy along the grooves. I would have been better painted perched among the branches.
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Post by Ad Absurdum on Oct 25, 2016 17:57:53 GMT -5
Salvation
Sunday
Father watches me and I watch him.
Meteoric eyes that bore into my own, savouring my own hangover. My seat is at the front of what is meant to be a church but is more of a stadium. A glissando of lights descend upon my father, and he once again has to remind the audience that this is about God, not him. I don’t believe it, not for a second, but the audience pretends like they drink it up. He sashays across the stage, his jacket glinting the same gold as his tooth.
It’s a performance, as much esprit as a rock star. The Bible in his flips behind his back like a basketball, catching the light as his hands snatch it again, snapping it open. His mercurial drawl carves out ‘Truths’ from a millennial old text, injected with his own modern spinster take.
News is so much better when it provokes.
And he says things. Things he pretends to lash out at the audience. But with every pause, every invisible punctuation mark, in the shadow of a breath, I know he adds my name.
Memories of last night keep me sane.
Monday
Lecture drones on and my notepad is a labyrinth of some fantastical city. My laptop hasn’t fared much better, tabs open to online shopping sites, each one showing off a foliage of dresses. Perhaps, if I sold a kidney.
Micro-economics froths forth from every sensory outlet the professor has available to him. The ritzed up transition on his slides, the crispness of his British accent, the artificial smell of a freshly painted lecture hall. All of it screams currency.
My pen draws another canal, Remoria, let it connect to the main train station.
Tuesday
I spot Sapphire Styles and Dynamite in mortal human form, remarkably short without those six inchers. I only notice because I stalk. They’re two people in front of me at the college cafeteria.
I don’t think they’d believe me if I told him who I was. Not that ‘young Christian boy’.
Wednesday
Father’s fists clench over my own at the dinner table, making my palms strangle the rosary. The tiny crucifix below us dangles like a fishing hook, leaping and darting–the only true metric for our silent conflict.
Mother and my two sisters sit quietly, palms pressed together eyes closed, mouths wordlessly reciting alongside us.
Yet father watches me and I watch him, he wants to see my tongue curve and spoon out every word.
We won’t stop until the ‘Hail Mary’ has been uttered another fifteen times. I can still remember when I remarked how quantity dilutes.
I can still feel the sting of his slap.
Thursday
Robyn Ryght scans my groceries. His stubble has grown in slightly since last Saturday, and his greasy black hair does little to hide his widow’s peak.
I know he’s checking me out. If only he knew we kissed once.
Perhaps I’d retaliate, if only father’s breath wasn’t washing down the back of my neck.
Friday
“Raise up your trousers”
“Why?”
“Because I said so, boy. Lift the leg. Raise them the fuck up. If I see any ra–“
“Fuck off.”
“YOU COME HERE NOW. RIGHT NOW.
Saturday
My workshift drawls on forever. Ten o clock takes six months to come around.
I don’t bother heading home. I know if I do, I’ll never get out, never escape his gaze.
Father thinks my gear is burning at the state dump, it’s in a storage unit instead. I head there now, my feet pumping on my bicycle.
Cell phone rings. Ignore it.
Cell phone rings. “Fuck off.”
I open the storage unit. It’s simple, one dressed, one mirror, one desk.
Strip. Make up first.
Foundation, to erase the blemishes of the week. Draw those lines, ease of the masculinity. Eyeliner, swirling it out in luminescent blue fractals (the Youtube tutorials served e well). Mascara, get those ‘fuck me’ eyelashes. Lipstick is killpink, turning my lips into twin waves.
Three pairs of pantyhose, enough to make the hairy stubble on my legs melt away under perfect curvature. Neonbubblegum fishnets, garnish.
Damn girl.
Raspberry-vanilla wig, brush it, curl it. Let it cascade.
Get kinky. Latex opera gloves, hide those biceps. Stud choker. Onyx piercings, encrust the ear. Faux leather one piece. Leotard, Show it all of. Don’t forget to tuck. Sparklepunk Stilletos boots. Seven inch monstrosities. Razor heels to slice across the dancefloor.
I enter. SuperSaiyanne exits.
One a.m.
Call cab. Ignore weird looks. Tell him Remoria. Ignore weird looks.
Phone rings. Double fuck off.
Remoria glows like a prismatic ice-cream in the middle of downtown. Pastel yellows, cyans and pinks form a u-arch, a tunnel. Saiyanne, struts out of the cab, the line for the club cheers. One fifteen am. Last call in an hour. Just an hour. Fuck work. Fuck college. Fuck father.
Strut in. Expected. Cataracts of lights tremble upon Saiyanne. Upon me. DJ tells me I’m up next, playing gospel from his chrome altar. His altar, my stage. The crowd is a sea. This is primetime. Cue Goldfrapp. The lights peel off their topaz shimmer, becoming pearl. Galactic disco ball, stars fall upon me.
The crowd croons. Goldfrapp sings, but my lips make them Truths.
Remoria cries in ecstasy, together. For me.
My church.
One hour. One mass. One performance. One is enough.
I'll keep pretending that one is enough.
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Post by James on Oct 29, 2016 19:33:41 GMT -5
Injin I think you did a fantastic job for an hour, Injin. The writing is really clean and I did think the lack of editing opportunity was going to be something that would hurt you, but it didn't really. Well done, there.
I'm in a bit of a dilemma reviewing this, because I think you write a lot of stories which are essentially a stream of consciousness. And I'd like to see you expand. But, saying that... stream of consciousness is what you do best. You get more inside the characters' heads, you show us some real emotion. You could feel the anxiousness bubbling away throughout the story. It would be interesting to see if you can take your ability to get inside a character's head and transfer it over to a slightly less internal form of narration.
Ultimately, though, this story while being good, isn't quite doing enough for me. It's not quite entertaining enough or deep enough to challenge the other two. But you made it to the final, Injin. That's a hell of an achievement.
Sensar You're a lucky, lucky boy that you accidentally adhered to the prompt, Sensar.
The writing is beautiful. The prose would have been great for a story you spent a week on, let alone an hour. As befitting a story about a painting, the scene is nicely set. The music engages a sense that we don't always see in writing. I really enjoy the idea that you throw up halfway through that when sitting for a painting, the painting isn't actually a work about you so much as you are more becoming the painting. That's just good writing.
Do I actually have any complaints? I don't think so. The dialogue is highly stylised and that's always a risk because it threatens the sense of realism of a piece. I think you were pushing the line, but ultimately it just serves the tone and atmosphere of the story.
Honestly, I just really enjoyed this. It's a great little story.
I just want to point out that I got to read your first two stories of this competition. They were okay. They had moments of sparkle. But there were also a fair few mistakes and some pretty workmanlike writing. Now? Dude, the improvement over a couple of months is just insane. I am so, so glad you started writing again.
Sam This is a really daring story for an hour. I really enjoyed it.
The writing, like nearly every story of yours in this competition, is strong. There's some excellent lines there. And I like the slow breakdown of structure, from the more normal sentences, to short sentences, to the fragmented end. It's a really nice touch. I thought the transformation was handled really well.
I don't have much else to say, if I'm being honest. Pete and I talked about the fact that we felt perhaps this was a little too “on the nose”. But then I liked the symmetry of the story, of the father's church and of the son's. Maybe it just needed to be a little less pointed?
But good work. And I think your lighthouse story is still my favourite of the whole competition.
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Post by Kaez on Oct 29, 2016 19:33:48 GMT -5
Alex: You should be really proud of having written this in only an hour. It's very clean and very believable. I do think you're at a bit of a disadvantage in this final (and I apologize for that, but we had our reasons) because you rely on editing a little more, perhaps, than the other two do. You struggle with first drafts. Your Round 7 story was MASSIVELY improved between its first draft and final version. You didn't get that chance here and nevertheless you wrote something that's completely respectable. And it clearly came from the heart. This feels very stream-of-consciousness-y and it's full of history and stress and pressure and all of that screams out Injin, and I like that. I like personal pieces. That said, there's nothing terribly captivating about taking an exam and trying to recall French history, is there? It doesn't grab me. There are four or five paragraphs which are all essentially mirrors of each other as the protagonist tries to remember historical facts and... by the third one, I was wanting to just skip ahead. The story doesn't evolve much, is what I mean to say. It has an opener, repeats the chorus five times, then has a closer. And that kept me from getting invested. Still, again, for emphasis: this is a perfectly good and impressively clean story for you to have written in just an hour.
Sensar: This is beautiful prose, Sensar. I don't know how to say this without it sounding like I'm complimenting myself, but this writing reminds me of my own writing when I'm at my best. The stuff I'm most proud of. I say that because I want to clarify that I do think there's some degree to which I'm personally biased toward this style of writing, because it's the style that I often write with myself, but you've just done it so well here. That you write this in an hour with no revisions and yet it's virtually free of errors and flows so cleanly is something of which you ought to be proud. Stream-of-consciousness, quick writing like this that is nevertheless so beautiful requires pure, innate, creative talent. There's no other way to put it. You demonstrate a gift for good writing here. Both characters are genuinely interesting, the protagonist is deeply sympathetic, the setting is inviting, and one of my very favorite things? Never do we get a description of the appearance of either character. For a story that's all about aesthetics, the most we get is that the painter has blue eyes. Otherwise, the characters are -subjects-, not objects, and that does you a great favor. It really draws the reader into them. The story also continually got better. The second quarter of the story is better than the first quarter and the third quarter is better than the second and the ending of the story is its best part. I loved the last few lines and I love the call-back to the middle of the story with them. Great work, man.
Sam: This is really well done. You took a somewhat poetic approach here. We get no paragraphs of prose. I think that's a pros-and-cons kind of trade-off. There are benefits to doing that style and there are drawbacks and I think both of them are here in more-or-less equal part. I do like your choice of coloring. I've played with a lot of coloring in my writing in the past and I think it's a nice tool when done subtly (I was not always subtle..). I also think that this is an impressively interesting story idea to have come up with and written in such a limited time constraint... but I can't help but think if you'd been given more time it would've been much more nuanced. As it stands, it feels a little bit on-the-nose. I really do very much like the idea of the pastor's son who is a pastor in his own way in a very different world. But that, on its own, is shallow. And it is on its own. We don't really see anything happening around it. There's just this one, skeletal narrative without much flesh on it, and without such flesh, it's a little blunt and almost cliche. This is a story that could've been a phenomenal one if it had the time to breathe and was given some meat and texture. But without that, it's good - it's quite good - but lacking and not entirely satisfying.
***
So, I think you all did great work here. I have some experience writing under 30-minute time constraints and I know how tricky it can be (and I don't imagine 60 minutes is much easier). All of you pulled it off and all of you wrote good stories and should be pleased and proud. You've all finished in the top 3 with very good records, you've outdone Ink, Adam, Matteo, Sawyer, and Dragon, who are all perfectly talented writers. You put in a lot of time and work into this writing, you've taken advice to heart. And I want to personally thank you all for taking the time to participate. These competitions are what keep AWR's original intentions alive and thriving. Congratulations to all of you.
But, of course, there can be only one winner. James and I both agreed on first, second, and third places.
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Post by James on Oct 29, 2016 19:33:58 GMT -5
All three stories were well-written, especially for just an hour. And it was a close call. Ultimately, though, we came to a pretty swift decision about who won the AWR League Cup 2016. Congratulations to: SENSAR We felt his story was just expertly written and was quiet and subtle in a way that gave him an edge over his two competitors. Sam finished in a close second, and Injin ended off a great competition in a respectable third. Overall, the league table ended up as followed:
| WINS | LOSSES | 1st - SENSAR
| 5 | 2
| 2nd - SAM
| 5
| 2 | 3rd - INJIN | 5
| 2 | 4th - DRAGON
| 4 | 3
| 4th - INK
| 4
| 3
| 6th - ADAM | 2 | 5
| 6th - SAWYER
| 2
| 5 | 7th - MATTEO
| 0
| 7
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