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Young Writers Society


Event 3 - No Es - RESULTS



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Tue Feb 13, 2018 5:11 am
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Elinor says...



Thank you so much to everyone who submitted. The difficulty or writing anything, much less making it both coherent and compelling was not lost on me. However, I did have to pick some winners, so without further ado:

BRONZE
goes to @Evander

SILVER
goes to @Kays

GOLD
goes to @fortis

Since these entries were anonymous, please feel free to share your stories if you so desire! Thank you once again for submitting!

All our dreams can come true — if we have the courage to pursue them.

-- Walt Disney





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Tue Feb 13, 2018 5:14 am
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Iggy says...



Congratulations, everyone :)
“I can't go back to yesterday because I was a different person then."
- Lewis Carroll





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Tue Feb 13, 2018 6:03 am
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SnowGhost says...



Congrats :)
Just killing time until time kills me.





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Tue Feb 13, 2018 6:09 am
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alliyah says...



Congrats to the champs! This was definitely a difficult event! :D Would love to know what ya'll wrote!
you should know i am a time traveler &
there is no season as achingly temporary as now
but i have promised to return





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Tue Feb 13, 2018 6:38 am
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Hattable says...



I demand a redraw!!

jk, congrats fellas
"I remember I posted Klingon and it made the mods super hard" -Willard

Prok once said something about Nate and apple pie. I forget the context.





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Tue Feb 13, 2018 7:34 am
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Rook says...



Here's mine ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Spoiler! :
It hangs, brown and fat and drooping, its flimsy walls looking as windblown as hills of sand. Huntsman wasps crawling on it looking as maggots crawling on a body. You look up at that giant wasp’s lair, your lips curling in disgust. Your fist curls around a sharp gray rock; it cuts into your palm.

You think about how many wasps’ vision falls coolly on you, and if it’s all compound, how many fracturing photos of you spiral within tiny brains. You know that it probably looks similar to that mirror in your family’s hallway.

You think about how loud it would sound with all wasps in this world lifting in unity, wings whirring at that drowsy doldrum of a sun. Could it drown out all continuous calls and cawing of crows, you know, that drown out dronings of cars crawling on crusty, crumbling roads? Can it drown that sound of your mom’s agonizing moans? Always maroon nights, from which you can’t run.

You think of that bug, all black and gold. Bumbly kinds, and kinds that candy wax, but also horn-rimming stings, and witching wasps, and that long-lancing, smoking-coat-clad gold flu stinging thing drowsing in your mind.

Moaning into your humid days, panting for want of hydration, wasps find liquid salt on your skin, and sit lapping, lapping, drinking that salt, and turning small, hard and dry, you lay so still, and try not to show a fault or root to sting you.

That man, too, had a suit of mustard color, you know. You would always look upon it with rancor. It would always lay across his body and transform him to a rich plantation man of such an old South, riding through rows of cotton, riding crop in hand. Forcing… wasps to do hard labor, proxy for him.

Your vision pulsing in gold-black-gold-black, and a trail of blood runs across your hand: that rock has bit your skin. You look at that crimson, and you don’t grasp that your hand is crying out from that strain from your sharp rock. You think about how much liquid salt could drown that dark lair.

Staring at your hand, your vision is crimson. Crimson as Mom’s lipstick, crimson as Mom’s flowing skirt, crimson as drippy rings around black gaps and lairs and wounds.

It's okay. You too, okay? This is okay.

You’d said this, but your rock had flown from your hand. You’d thrown it. You’d known you would all along. A rock arcing is a thing of sublimity. Soon it will smash into that dark lair, wasps will float, gold ammunition, a cloud of shotgun rounds shining in gold light from a dozing, dazing lazy day.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger.
To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!

-Elena Passarello, Animals Strike Curious Poses





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Tue Feb 13, 2018 8:05 am
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Evander says...



Here's mine!

Spoiler! :
Poison hums throughout my form, coursing through my blood and pumping in my body with loud thumps not wanting to stop. My vision spins, cloudy as day. My hands clutch around a vial--shaky and hollow. Fast acting, I was told. Lay down your spirit for your country. My is room now a distant thought as I limp through hazy surroundings.

You must adapt to anything, my darling. Words cast off long ago buzz around in my sick skull.

I trip. I fall. I gasp, my body hitting hardwood floor with a disturbing finality to it all. I am going to succumb to...

My vial of poison cracks with a sharp sound, but I am too frail to tidy. I am too frail to assist my country. I cannot pull my body up. An assassin's assistant cannot succumb to poison, for succumbing in my first trial of six is a coward's way out.

Words of my witch grip onto my spirit, not allowing a path to undying void. Stay sturdy, darling. Adapt. Cold turns to warmth, poison turns to vigor, fragility into daring.

For I shall not allow a slaying in my royal family, not tomorrow, nor a thousand fortnights from now.
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Tue Feb 13, 2018 11:06 am
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Virgil says...



Congrats to the other two winners! I honestly didn't think I'd win anything with what I wrote, but here it is!

Spoiler! :

My hands burnt from a charm that Mom taught in arcana class prior to passing away. Not in a million days did I think upon that particular conjuration until instinct took control. Now, I only wish that I paid scrutiny in classrooms and talking to Mom.

Cicadas howl on a moonlit night as I trod across a soil path. With a hand I grasp Mom's warding tailsman and push forward, knowing I can't stay or stop to unwind. I can't bank on my tailsman. I must find this sanctuary, if sanctuary subsists in this world. Stars, I trust you to pilot my body to asylum. I trust in you as Mom trusts in you. As Mom did.

A combustion burns in my hands and conviction burns in my pupils as I roam atop and through untold hills. Lightning frolics and cavorts as I look for a sanctuary, but find nothing.

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Percy fell face-first into his pizza.
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