Contest Winner Quotes

Greeting to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed," he says. "Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor.

How can 5 judges decide the best book of the year without reading every book of the year? While some lucky authors can enter the contest, others may never get the chance to do so due to the tough nomination and selection processes. And how can the judges’ decision be right when we know that submitting the same books to different panels will result in different winners?

This is not a contest with your child. The winner is not the one with more points. The winner is the one whose child still loves them when they graduate from high school.

The fact that a thesis is flawed does not mean that we should not invest in it as long as other people believe in it and there is a large group of people left to be convinced. The point was made by John Maynard Keynes when he compared the stock market to a beauty contest where the winner is not the most beautiful contestant but the one whom the greatest number of people consider beautiful. Where I have something significant to add is in pointing out that it pays to look for the flaws; if we find them, we are ahead of the game because we can limit our losses when the market also discovers what we already know. It is when we are unaware of what could go wrong that we have to worry.

74. In 1944 a 16-year-old black student in Columbus, Ohio won an essay contest on the theme ‘what to do with Hitler after the war’ by submitting a single sentence. “Put him in black skin and let him live the rest of his life in America.

Uh, yeah. Hello? Are you the contest winner?” His Irish brogue is thick, punctuated by irritation. I pull my proverbial shit together and nod. “Yeah.” “About bloody time. Did you stop to sign autographs?

In the tenth century BC, the priests of India devised the Brahmodya competition, which would become a model of authentic theological discourse. The object was to find a verbal formula to define the Brahman, the ultimate and inexpressible reality beyond human understanding. The idea was to push language as far as it would go, until participants became aware of the ineffable. The challenger, drawing on his immense erudition, began the process by asking an enigmatic question and his opponents had to reply in a way that was apt but equally inscrutable. The winner was the contestant who reduced the others to silence. In that moment of silence, the Brahman was present - not in the ingenious verbal declarations but in the stunning realisation of the impotence of speech. Nearly all religious traditions have devised their own versions of this exercise. It was not a frustrating experience; the finale can, perhaps, be compared to the moment at the end of the symphony, when there is a full and pregnant beat of silence in the concert hall before the applause begins. The aim of good theology is to help the audience to live for a while in that silence.

Write if you will: but write about the world as it is and as you think it ought to be and must be—if there is to be a world. Write about all the things that men have written about since the beginning of writing and talking—but write to a point. Work hard at it, care about it. Write about our people: tell their story. You have something glorious to draw on begging for attention. Don’t pass it up. You have something glorious to draw on begging for attention. Don’t pass it up. Use it. Good luck to you. The Nation needs your gifts. Lorraine Hansberry speech, “To Be Young, Gifted, and Black,” given to Readers Digest/United Negro College Fund creative writing contest winners, NYC, May 1, 1964.

Every author these days is an award-winning novelist. Why? Because they set up an award contest and they dub themselves the winner.

I don't consider those competitions fair where judges get to decide the winner, because selected judges quite often are not worthy or qualified enough to make the right decision.

There was no question about it- the girl in the photograph was staggeringly beautiful. She was Miss Canal Zone, a runner-up in the Miss Universe Contest -- and in fact far more beautiful than the winner of the contests. Her beauty had frightened the judges.

If you are a winner by the judgements of few judges and not by your performance, you are not a real winner.

Write if you will: but write about the world as it is and as you think it ought to be and must be—if there is to be a world. Write about all the things that men have written about since the beginning of writing and talking—but write to a point. Work hard at it, care about it. Write about our people: tell their story. You have something glorious to draw on begging for attention. Don’t pass it up. Use it. Good luck to you. The Nation needs your gifts. Lorraine Hansberry speech, “To Be Young, Gifted, and Black,” given to Readers Digest/United Negro College Fund creative writing contest winners, NYC, May 1, 1964.

Write if you will: but write about the world as it is and as you think it ought to be and must be—if there is to be a world. Write about all the things that men have written about since the beginning of writing and talking—but write to a point. Work hard at it, care about it. Write about our people: tell their story. You have something glorious to draw on begging for attention. Don’t pass it up. Don’t pass it up. Use it. Good luck to you. The Nation needs your gifts. Lorraine Hansberry speech, “To Be Young, Gifted, and Black,” given to Readers Digest/United Negro College Fund creative writing contest winners, NYC, May 1, 1964.

Most exciting email I have received! "Congratulations! You are a finalist in the 2020 Saturday Evening Post Great American Fiction Contest. We will be announcing the winner, runners-up, and honorable mentions very soon, but first I am reaching out to each finalist to applaud your work and clarify details with regard to publication rights." Stay tuned!

You cannot be chosen as a winner without contest. Winners have many families but nobody wants to associate with a loser. I will prepare myself and one day my chance will come.

It’s not a contest.’ ‘Yes it is. You just can’t see it because you’ve always been the winner

The more obsessed with personal identity campus liberals become, the less willing they become to engage in reasoned political debate. Over the past decade a new, and very revealing, locution has drifted from our universities into the media mainstream: 'Speaking as an X' . . . This is not an anodyne phrase. It tells the listener that I am speaking from a privileged position on this matter. (One never says, 'Speaking as an gay Asian, I fell incompetent to judge on this matter'). It sets up a wall against questions, which by definition come from a non-X perspective. And it turns the encounter into a power relation: the winner of the argument will be whoever has invoked the morally superior identity and expressed the most outrage at being questioned. So classroom conversations that once might have begun, 'I think A, and here is my argument', now take the form, 'Speaking as an X, I am offended that you claim B'. This makes perfect sense if you believe that identity determines everything. It means that there is no impartial space for dialogue. White men have one "epistemology", black women have another. So what remains to be said? What replaces argument, then, is taboo. At times our more privileged campuses can seem stuck in the world of archaic religion. Only those with an approved identity status are, like shamans, allowed to speak on certain matters. Particular groups -- today the transgendered -- are given temporary totemic significance. Scapegoats -- today conservative political speakers -- are duly designated and run off campus in a purging ritual. Propositions become pure or impure, not true or false. And not only propositions but simple words. Left identitarians who think of themselves as radical creatures, contesting this and transgressing that, have become like buttoned-up Protestant schoolmarms when it comes to the English language, parsing every conversation for immodest locutions and rapping the knuckles of those who inadvertently use them.

People slice up tree trunks, nail the pieces together into boxy shapes, and then go inside to sleep. Trees use the wood in their trunks for a different purpose—namely, they use it to fight with other plants. From dandelions to daffodils, from ferns to figs, from potatoes to pine trees—every plant growing on land is striving toward two prizes: light, which comes from above, and water, which comes from below. Any contest between two plants can be decided in one move, when the winner simultaneously reaches higher and digs deeper than the loser. Consider the tremendous advantage that wood confers to one of the contestants during such a battle: armed with a stiff-yet-flexible, strong-yet-light prop that separates—and connects—leaves and roots, trees have dominated the tournament for more than four hundred million years.

The gravity of our situation isn't lost on me, but I stall for a few more moments. No one will like what I have to say. Our island is self-sufficient alright. Except for the threads of kelp we use to make súgán, rope that makes the trambles that we desperately need to catch fish. The long-stranded kelp comes from a dangerous, forbidden place below the island, a land belonging to no one that is situated between us and an enemy tribe, a tribe of fish people known as Iasc. As such, for lack of a better name, my people call the almost mythical area, as none of us has laid eyes on it, the Between.

The more we are recognized as winners, the more we know ourselves to be losers. That is why it is rare for the winners of highly coveted and publicized prizes to settle for their titles and retire. Winners, especially celebrated winners, must prove repeatedly they are winners. The script must be played over and over again. Titles must be defended by new contests. No one is ever wealthy enough, honored enough, applauded enough. On the contrary, the visibility of our victories only tightens the grip of the failures in our invisible past.

Distributions can only be based on measurements, but as in the case of measuring intelligence, the nature of measurement is often complicated and troubled by ambiguities. Consider the problem of noise, or what is known as luck in human affairs. Since the rise of the new digital economy, around the turn of the century, there has been a distinct heightening of obsessions with contests like American Idol, or other rituals in which an anointed individual will suddenly become rich and famous. When it comes to winner-take-all contests, onlookers are inevitably fascinated by the role of luck. Yes, the winner of a singing contest is good enough to be the winner, but even the slightest flickering of fate might have changed circumstances to make someone else the winner. Maybe a different shade of makeup would have turned the tables. And yet the rewards of winning and losing are vastly different. While some critics might have aesthetic or ethical objections to winner-take-all outcomes, a mathematical problem with them is that noise is amplified. Therefore, if a societal system depends too much on winner-take-all contests, then the acuity of that system will suffer. It will become less reality-based.

We know so much, but know so little, and the fine details keep shifting, but unlike any other American ethnic group those details are always hotly debated. We are not allowed the peace of mind of our own self-rumination. Every aspect of our history becomes a contested article on social media, a gospel truth to be disproved by experts at conferences, and a groupthink to be contained. Our cultural myths we design ourselves around are not sacred like other people’s myths; our anchors are constantly being pulled up to make white people feel as if they’re in control, and because of this we have struggled to come up with a cohesive and empowering narrative of our own.

Animals, including people, fight harder to prevent losses than to achieve gains. In the world of territorial animals, this principle explains the success of defenders. A biologist observed that “when a territory holder is challenged by a rival, the owner almost always wins the contest—usually within a matter of seconds.” In human affairs, the same simple rule explains much of what happens when institutions attempt to reform themselves, in “reorganizations” and “restructuring” of companies, and in efforts to rationalize a bureaucracy, simplify the tax code, or reduce medical costs. As initially conceived, plans for reform almost always produce many winners and some losers while achieving an overall improvement. If the affected parties have any political influence, however, potential losers will be more active and determined than potential winners; the outcome will be biased in their favor and inevitably more expensive and less effective than initially planned. Reforms commonly include grandfather clauses that protect current stake-holders—for example, when the existing workforce is reduced by attrition rather than by dismissals, or when cuts in salaries and benefits apply only to future workers. Loss aversion is a powerful conservative force that favors minimal changes from the status quo in the lives of both institutions and individuals.

In this cosmic arena, Luo Ji faced not the fancy moves of Chinese sword fighting, resembling dance more than war; nor the flourishes of Western sword fighting, designed to show off the wielder’s skill; but the fatal blows of Japanese kenjutsu. Real Japanese sword fights often ended after a very brief struggle lasting no more than half a second to two seconds. By the time the swords had clashed but once, one side had already fallen in a pool of blood. But before this moment, the opponents stared at each other like statues, sometimes for as long as ten minutes. During this contest, the swordsman’s weapon wasn’t held by the hands, but by his heart. The heart-sword, transformed through the eyes into the gaze, stabbed into the depths of the enemy’s soul. The real winner was determined during this process: In the silence suspended between the two swordsmen, the blades of their spirits parried and stabbed as soundless claps of thunder. Before a single blow was struck, victory, defeat, life, and death had already been decided.

When the card came back you couldn't have found any red on it with a microscope. The pitchman handed down a ponderous mohair Teddybear and Ballard slapped down three dimes again. When he had won two bears and a tiger and a small audience the pitchman took the rifle away from him. That's it for you, buddy, he hissed. You never said nothin about how many times you could win. Step right up, sang the barker. Who's next now. Three big grand prizes per person is the house limit. Who's our next big winner. Ballard loaded up his bears and the tiger and started off through the crowd. They lord look at what all he's won, said a woman. Ballard smiled tightly. Young girls' faces floated past, bland and smooth as cream. Some eyed his toys. The crowd was moving toward the edge of a field and assembling there, Ballard among them, a sea of country people watching into the dark for some midnight contest to begin. A light sputtered off in the field and a blue tailed rocket went skittering toward Canis Major. High above their upturned faces it burst, sprays of lit glycerine flaring across the night, trailing down the sky in loosely falling ribbons of hot spectra soon. burnt to naught. Another went up, a long whishing sound, fishtailing aloft. In the bloom of its opening you could see like its shadow the image of the rocket gone before, the puff of black smoke and ashen trails arcing out and down like a huge and dark medusa squatting in the sky. In the bloom of light too you could see two men out in the field crouched over their crate of fireworks like assassins or bridge blowers. And you could see among the faces a young girl with candy apple on her lips and her eyes wide. Her pale hair smelled of soap, woman child from beyond the years, rapt below the sulphur glow and pitch light of some medieval fun fair. A lean sky long candle skewered the black pools in her eyes. Her fingers clutched. In the flood of this breaking brimstone galaxy she saw the man with the bears watching her and she edged closer to the girl by her side and brushed her hair with two fingers quickly.

In any pageant, or in any game or contest, there are winners and there are losers. You might be a winner, Myriah, and that would be wonderful. Daddy and Gabbie and I and even Laura would be very proud of you, but you might be a loser, too. There are going to be lots more losers than winners and I want you to know that we’ll be proud of you if you lose. We’ll be proud of you for having the courage to be in the pageant, and for the work and rehearsing you’ll do.” “I know,” said Myriah, giving her mother a hug. “Thank you.” “One more thing,” said her mother. “I think you should know that for some girls, this pageant won’t be just fun and games. I hope it’ll be fun for you, but for others it will be work. They’ll take it very seriously. You might be competing against girls who have been winners in other pageants, or who have won beauty contests or talent contests. They’ll know how pageants work. And they might, just might, not be very friendly. I want you to understand what you’re getting into, that’s all. Okay?” “Okay,” said Myriah.

Little Blaine: You're making him angry. Oh, you're making him SO angry. Eddie: (kindly) Get lost, squirt. (to Blaine) Answer this one, Blaine: the big moron and the little moron were fighting on the bridge over the River Send. The big moron fell off. How come the little moron didn't fall off, too? Blaine: THAT IS UNWORTHY OF OUR CONTEST. I WILL NOT ANSWER. Roland: (with blazing eyes) What do you say, Blaine? I would not understand you well. Are you saying that you cry off? Blaine: NO! OF COURSE NOT! BUT-- Roland: Then answer, if you can. Answer the riddle. Blaine: (gratingly) IT'S NOT A RIDDLE! IT'S A JOKE, SOMETHING FOR STUPID CHILDREN TO CACKLE OVER IN THE PLAY YARD! Roland: (confidently) Answer now or I declare the contest over and our winner. You must answer, for it is stupidity you complain of, not transgression of the rules, which we agreed upon mutually. Blaine: (clicking his tongue loudly and gratingly, causing Eddie to wince and Oy to flatten his ears against his skull; a pause of three seconds, then, sulkily) THE LITTLE MORON DID NOT FALL OFF BECAUSE HE WAS A LITTLE MORE ON. MORE PHONETIC COINCIDENCE. TO EVEN ANSWER SUCH AN UNWORTHY RIDDLE MAKES ME FEEL SOILED.

The ancient Greeks set very high store by physical prowess and encouraged its pursuit by awarding valuable prizes to the winners of all sorts of athletic contests. But, strangely enough, there is no record that they ever offered prizes for intellectual prowess. ..... The prizes awarded at Greek contests were worth more than the performances that earned them, for the prizes were intended not only to stimulate effort but to reward achievement. Consequently, if one were to give a prize for intellectual prowess, for knowledge itself, one would have to find something to award which was more valuable than knowledge. But knowledge already is the rarest gem in the world. The Greeks, unwilling to debase the value of knowledge, piled up chests all crammed with gold to the height of Mount Olympus. They gathered in the wealth of Croesus, and wealth beyond that wealth, but in the end they recognized that the value of knowledge cannot be matched, let alone exceeded. So, masters of reason that they were, they decided that the prize should be nothing at all. From this, Suzuki, I trust you will have learnt that, whatever the color of your money, it is worthless stuff compared with learning.

As people turned away, Kestrel saw a clear path to Irex, tall and black-clad in the center of the space marked for the duel. He smiled at her, and Kestrel was so thrown out of herself that she didn’t know her father had arrived until she felt his hand on her shoulder. He was dusty and smelled of horse. “Father,” she said, and would have tucked herself into his arms. He checked her. “This isn’t the time.” She flushed. “General Trajan,” Ronan said cheerfully. “So glad you could come. Benix, do I see the Raul twins over there, in the front, closest to the dueling ground? No, you blind bat. There, right next to Lady Faris. Why don’t we watch the match with them? You, too, Jess. We need your feminine presence so we can pretend that we’re only interested in the twins because you’d like to chat about feathered hats.” Jess squeezed Kestrel’s hand, and the three of them would have left immediately had the general not stopped them. “Thank you,” he said. Kestrel’s friends dropped their merry act, which Jess wasn’t performing well anyway. The general focused on Ronan, sizing him up like he would a new recruit. Then he did something rare. He gave a nod of approval. The corner of Ronan’s mouth lifted in a small, worried smile as he led the others away. Kestrel’s father faced her squarely. When she bit her lip, he said, “Now is not the time to show any weakness.” “I know.” He checked the straps on her forearms, at her hips, and against her calves, tugging the leather that secured six small knives to her body. “Keep your distance from Irex,” he said, his voice low, though the people nearest to them had withdrawn to give some privacy--a deference to the general. “Your best bet is to keep this to a contest of thrown knives. You can dodge his, throw your own, and might even get first blood. Make him empty his sheaths. If you both lose all six Needles, the duel is a draw.” He straightened her jacket. “Don’t let this turn into hand-to-hand combat.” The general had sat next to her at the spring tournament. He had seen Irex fight and directly afterward had tried to enlist him in the military. “I want you to be at the front of the crowd,” Kestrel said. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” A small crease appeared between her father’s brows. “Don’t let him get close.” Kestrel nodded, though she had no intention of taking his advice. She walked through the throngs of people to meet Irex.

As Frances had learned to do in times of uncertainty, she created a project over which she had total control and began writing a book “Dedicated to the memory of Irving Thalberg as a tribute to his vision and genius.” How to Write and Sell Film Stories was written for “serious students of film technique.” She filled the straightforward textbook with anecdotes from her films and others’ to convey the lessons on the development of plot, motivation, and characters she had learned with Thalberg. She had come to believe that because of increased censorship and the limited number of adaptable plays and novels, “eighty percent of the motion pictures produced will be soon be stories written exclusively for the screen” and the time was right for a book on original screenplays. The audience for the book was immediate; universities ordered copies before it was published and it quickly went into several printings. The book led to her taking on an advice column on screen writing for Cinema Progress, a serious educational film magazine published by the American Institute of Cinematography based at the University of Southern California. She opened her house to roundtable discussions with students and sponsored a scenario contest with the winners serving as studio “apprentices.

Suzanne rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean you were modeling kites, George,” she explained. “I just meant that in a fashion show, everyone takes a turn walking down the runway. When one person finishes, the next one goes.” “You mean take turns,” Manny said. Suzanne nodded. “Exactly.” “Why didn’t you just say that?” Kevin asked. “Because then it wouldn’t have been a Suzanne idea,” Katie told the boys. The kids all laughed. That was true. Suzanne definitely had her own way of saying things. “How will we know who wins the contest if the kites don’t fly at the same time?” Manny asked. “Dudes, you’re all winners,” Mr. G. assured the boys. “You made kites that are designed to fly high for a long time.” “Yeah, that’s true,” Jeremy said. “We’re the kings of kites,” George agreed

Part of the Growth Plan's genius lay in how diabolical it was. The one controlling obstacle to the plan, of course, were the unions at American [Airlines in the early 1980s]. The very concept of a two-tier wage system ran 180 degrees counter to the fundamental all-for-one, one-for-all principles of unionism. But the Growth Plan was conspicuously structured to benefit _existing_ union members, who in an expanding airline would enjoy vastly greater promotion opportunities, meaning that their salaries would increase even more than otherwise. The incumbent employees would reap this windfall on the backs of future employees, but what did it matter when the winners under this strategy were the only ones able to vote on the proposal?

But film sometimes flinches at the expertise of actresses, and the sympathetic viewer may come to realize that there was a mute honesty in Novak: she did not conceal the fact that she had been drawn into a world capable of exploiting her. Filming seemed an ordeal for her; it was as if the camera hurt her. But while many hostile to the movies rose in defense of the devastation of Marilyn Monroe—whether or not she was a sentient victim—Novak was stoical, obdurate, or sullen. She allowed very few barriers between that raw self and the audience and now looks dignified, reflective, and responsive to feeling where Monroe appears haphazard and oblivious. Novak is the epitome of every small-town waitress or beauty contest winner who thought of being in the movies. Despite a thorough attempt by Columbia to glamorize her, she never lost the desperate attentiveness of someone out of her depth but refusing to give in. Her performances improve with time so that ordinary films come to center on her; even Vertigo, Hitchcock’s masterpiece, owes some of its power to Novak’s harrowing suspension between tranquility and anxiety.

Indians are supposed to be silent in the Records written by history’s winners, but Shawnees speak from the Records kept by the British, French, Spaniards, and Americans. Shawnee orators explained that for them the struggle for America was not only a contest for resources but also a clash between two ways of life and between two different worldviews. They fought for a different vision of America.

Sports provide us with dangerous metaphors. A sporting contest is a contest: a game of winners and losers.

Are humans moral creatures whose actions are judged by some external or divine standard, or are we simply accidental winners of an utterly random contest of genes? If it’s the latter, does that mean we are only answerable to whatever ethical standards we invent for ourselves?

The more we are recognized as winners, the more we know ourselves to be losers. That is why it is rare for the winners of highly coveted and publicized prizes to settle for their titles and retire. Winners, expecially celebrated winners, must prove repeatedly they are winners. The script must be played over and over again. Titles must be defended by new contests. No one is ever wealthy enough, honored enough, applauded enough. On the contrary, the visibility of our victories only tightens the grip of the failures in our invisible past.

We cannot have a precise understanding of what it means to be the winner of a contest until we can place the game in the absolute dimensions of a world.

As the foeman’s axe descended, Ragnar Thorvaldsson thought – quickly, but with uncannily prescient anachronism – that his paltry contribution to this raid would not be recorded in the great sagas, or even a minor tale, but at best he might be remembered centuries hence only as “third oarsman” in the Boys’ Own Book of Viking Adventure Stories. — (Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest winner)

The spaceship hovered like a saucer, only rounder, deeper, the product of an unholy union between dessert plate and finger bowl, as any of the villagers familiar with traditional service à la russe dining could plainly see. - (Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest winner)

Whoever wins this struggle is privileged with the claim of true knowledge. Knowledge has been arrived at, it is the outcome of this engagement. Its winners have the uncontested power to make certain statements of fact. They are to be listened to. In those areas appropriate to the contests now concluded, winners possess a knowledge that no longer can be challenged.

What the fuck happened between you two?” Logan asks as soon as the door closes. I shrug. Logan is famous for his shrugs. He should accept mine. But he doesn’t. Instead, he punches me in the shoulder. Shit, that hurt. “What the fuck?” I ask. “What happened?” he asks. He looks straight into my eyes. “Nothing,” I say. I shake my head. “Not a fucking thing.” “Dude, you had a pillow shoved in your lap, and you were getting off her bed when we walked in. Something happened.” He shoves my shoulder, almost knocking me over. Logan’s a big boy. A little bigger than me, and I’m a big guy. “Not to mention that she looked like she’d just been fucked.” I stop and turn to face him. I lay both lands flat on his chest and shove him as hard as I can. “Don’t ever fucking talk about her like that again,” I warn. Logan takes a few steps back. Then he grins. “It’s about fucking time,” he says. He holds up a hand to high five me. “Fuck you,” I say instead, and I keep walking toward my dorm. I can’t get there fast enough. “Did you kiss her?” he asks. He grins at me again, and I feel a smile tugging at my own lips. But it doesn’t last for more than a minute. His joviality isn’t contagious. “I was about to…. Then you guys busted in,” I admit. “She wants you, man. She’s got it as bad as you do. Trust me.” I shake my head. “She doesn’t.” “She does.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “She told Emily. Emily told me.” He pauses and then says, “You’re welcome.” “What did she say?” I ask. I probably don’t want to know. “She said she wants to have your babies.” He jumps back when I go to punch him, and he laughs. “Shut up,” I say. “This is serious.” “Why’s it so serious all of a sudden?” Logan asks.  “This shit’s been going on between you two for a long time. Why does it suddenly matter so much?” “The contest is today. They’re raffling off a kiss from her.” I heave a sigh. “One lucky winner is going to get to kiss the woman I love. In front of everybody.” “Oh, fuck,” Logan breathes. “That’s shit.” “I asked her not to go,” I confess. “So, go buy all the tickets,” he says with a shrug, as though he just solved world poverty or AIDS. “It doesn’t work like that. You have to guess the number of jelly beans in her jar. If you get the wrong number, you don’t get anything. If you get the right number, you get to kiss her.” “So, we need to figure out how many jelly beans are in her jar,” he says simply. He looks at me. “Did you see the jar?” I nod. “It’s a pickle jar.” I hold out my hands to show him the size. “The big kind.” “So we need a jar that size, and we need to fill it with jelly beans and then count them. At least then you can get close, right?” I scrub a hand down my face. “This is stupid. I’ll never get it. Every guess costs a dollar.” I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. It’s nearly empty. “You’re just going to let somebody else kiss her?” “If I’m not there, I won’t see it.” I shrug my shoulders, trying to hide the fact that I feel as if I’m being gutted. He stares at me. He doesn’t say anything. “If it were Emily, I’d buy every fucking pickle and every damn jelly bean in the state of New York. There’s no way my girl would kiss some asshole.” “You’re right,” I say. “We need to go to the store.” Hope swells inside me. Do I have a chance? I won’t know until I try, I guess. Logan

Winners see the victory before the contest begins and before they cross the finish line. Get yourself ready. SEE THE VICTORY.

Is it possible to blush in a dream? I hope not because I would have been the winner of a Hellboy look-alike contest.

Today was the day to win again, Javlei held his axe in hand he had killed many people with it he didn't care that he had blood on his hands. He had won the STEDFARST races every year so far by being ruthless butchering other racers as he went.

Flash, copy transcribed from Word Yahoo email Q Q Winner Flash Fiction Contest Diversicon 27 (2019) by Scott E. Shjefte “THE NEXT STEP” Flatness, extended flatness, boring endless, on and on, forever… Roundness, I think, I am round. Rolling, I can. Energy found from within and great joy to roll. Roll to the end of Flatness. Sense of self, I can PING!. PING< PING< PING< Hear the ping of my sphere! I am sphere - the flatness extends, as I roll. Roll is great but much sameness everywhere. Destiny to explore, discover. Then a vertical cylinder I ping. It ‘pings’ back with great sadness, standing proud but motionless. It pings to me, I am joyed to find another! Cylinder is sad that it can not roll, cylinder is envious of ME! I touch, we touch, contact is blissful. I am not alone! I push, and push and cylinder falls over. Cylinder is joyful, Cylinder can roll! Great joy to roll together, and roll, and roll. We roll long and far and then ping a pyramid. Pyramid envies our rolling travels. I push the pyramid but just go up its side. Strange to leave upward from the flatness. I back down and away from the pyramid. I gather my energies, I move faster than I ever have towards the pyramid, I roll up its side and off the top outward pinging ever outward, higher and I Ping now that the flatness is curved and a new adventure ever outward, this next step is an ORBITAL LEAP! by Sesame

We organized ‘The Great Indian Poetry Contest’, an international poetry competition. It was judged by an eminent panel consisting of Kalki Koechlin and Kausar Munir. It was an extensive process which started in May 2018 and took several months to conclude. It included multiple rounds of screening, reading and re-reading the poems on various levels, discussing and arguing our choices of winners, reasoning out each selection with the jury, and finally declaring the results in November 2018.

The entire criminal justice system is geared on the assumption that whoever calls in first is the complainant, the victim. The good guy now, by default, becomes the bad guy: the suspect. The perpetrator. In situations like these, you’re a contestant in what I’ve come to call ‘the race to the telephone.’ The winner gets to be the good guy, and the loser automatically becomes the bad guy.” To avoid being caught in a similar situation, do your best to win the race to the telephone after an encounter.

But an active investor can overweight a stock only if other market players take offsetting underweight positions. By definition, the sum of overweight positions must equal the sum of underweight positions, allowing the market weight to remain the market weight. Obviously, based on subsequent performance, the overweighters and underweighters turn into winners and losers (or losers and winners). If the stock in question performs well relative to the market, the overweighters win and the underweighters lose. If the stock performs poorly relative to the market, the overweighters lose and the underweighters win. Before considering transaction costs, active management appears to be a zero-sum game, a contest in which the winners’ gains exactly offset the losers’ losses. Unfortunately for active portfolio managers, investors incur significant costs in pursuit of market-beating strategies. Stock pickers pay commissions to trade and create market impact with buys and sells. Mutual-fund purchasers face the same market-related transactions costs in addition to management fees paid to advisory firms and distribution fees paid to brokerage firms. The leakage of fees from the system causes active management to turn into a negative-sum game in which the aggregate returns for active investors fall short of the aggregate returns for the market as a whole.

The thread that is running through the whole book applies here – namely, that where there is an obvious partnership between elements like window and wall they establish a semi-autonomous pattern capable of being judged in isolation. At the same time, this secondary pattern must owe its allegiance to the super-pattern of the total concept. // In coming to an aesthetic decision, chunking again comes into play. The sum of ‘window-ness’ is pitched against the totality of ‘wall-ness’. Either way there should be a clear-cut winner of the binary contest, but within the limits of deferential dominance.

One of the greatest decorum scenes in movie history graces the climax of 8 Mile, Eminem’s semiautobiography. He gets talked into a competition at a dance club in downtown Detroit where hip-hop artists (orators, if you will) take turns insulting each other. The audience chooses the winner by applause. Eventually, the contest comes down to two people: Eminem and a sullen-looking black guy. (Well, not as sullen as Eminem. Nobody can be that sullen.) Eminem wears proper attire: stupid skullcap, clothes a few sizes too big, and as much bling as he can afford. If he showed up dressed like Cary Grant, he would look terrific—to you and me. But the dance club crowd would find him wildly indecorous. Clothing is the least of his decorum problems, though. He happens to be white, and everyone else in the room is black. Eminem nonetheless manages to devastate his adversary by revealing a nasty little secret: this putative gangbanger attended a prep school! All the poor guy’s hip-hop manners are pointless, because the audience finds them phony.

The Bears waited nervously while the judges studied, measured, and weighed, and then studied, measured, and weighed some more. Finally, they made their announcement: “THE FIRST-PRIZE WINNER--AND STILL CHAMPION…” Of course, that meant Farmer Ben had won. It was close--it turned out that Ben’s Monster was just a little bigger, rounder, and oranger than Papa’s Giant. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The Giant didn’t even come in second. A beautiful pumpkin grown by Miz McGrizz won second prize. The Giant came in third. Papa and the cubs were crushed…crushed and very quiet as they pushed their third-prize winner home. It wasn’t until they reached the crest of a hill that overlooked Bear Country that Mama decided to have her say. “I know you’re disappointed. But third prize is nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, Thanksgiving isn’t about contests and prizes. It’s about giving thanks. And it seems to me that we have a lot of be thankful for.” Perhaps it was Mama’s lecture, or maybe it was how beautiful Bear Country looked in the sunset’s rosy glow. But whatever the reason, Papa and the cubs began to understand what Mama was talking about. Even more so on Thanksgiving Day. After the Bears gave thanks for the wonderful meal they were about to enjoy, Sister Bear gave her own special thanks. “I’m thankful,” she said, “that we didn’twin first prize: if we had, The Giant would be on display in front of City Hall instead of being part of the yummy pies we’re going to have for dessert!” As the laughter faded and the Bears thought about the blessings of family, home, friends, and neighbors, they knew deep down in their hearts that there was no question about it--indeed they did have a great deal to be thankful for.

European nation with highest politician/lover ratio: Few European states can hope to compete with France and Italy in this department, and the two nations have been battling for European political lothario supremacy for over thirty years. The contest has been increasingly acrimonious since 1998, when France was initially the clear winner but somehow “lost” sixty-eight illicit lovers in the recount and had to concede defeat. The following year was no less rocked in scandal, when the Italians were disqualified for “stretching the boundaries” of their elected representatives to include senior civil servants—and the crown was tossed back to France. No one was quite prepared for the disgraceful scandal the following year when it was discovered that one French minister had no mistress at all and “loved his wife,” a shocking revelation that led to his resignation and ultimately to the fall of the government.

This has the added negative effect of giving them the illusion of confidence. It is a hard lesson to accept, but the success of many people is due to luck, not knowledge. If a thousand people try a thousand different methods and one of them hits the jackpot, it is an illusion to think the winner necessarily had more knowledge or skill than the losers. If two psychics pick opposite winners in an athletic contest, one of them may appear to have more knowledge that the other, but the appearance is an illusion.

From dandelions to daffodils, from ferns to figs, from potatoes to pine trees—every plant growing on land is striving toward two prizes: light, which comes from above, and water, which comes from below. Any contest between two plants can be decided in one move, when the winner simultaneously reaches higher and digs deeper than the loser.

The mythologist Joseph Campbell, while not writing about reality TV directly, provides an explanation for this genre’s success when he says: “A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.” Isn’t this what happens on reality TV? Right before our eyes we see people who are hoping to be called to adventure, to be chosen for a hero’s journey, and to obtain the boon. As we watch and vote for our favorites, we find pieces of ourselves mirrored in the contestants, feeling as if we, too, are on the hero’s journey. While it’s true that all of the finalists can sing or dance, sew or cook, the contestants often move us simply because they don’t seem to know how talented they are. As we watch contestants with self-doubt and raw talent acknowledged by the judges and the voters, we muse to ourselves, “Maybe I don’t know how magnificent I am, either.” If that contestant has been discovered—or chosen—perhaps we can be, too. Even though, in the end, there is only one winner, we are inspired by seeing so many heroes move to the center of their lives, conquering fear and insecurity.

Ambrose was ejected from the arena by Triple H. Later that night, Rollins came out and announced that he had won their match by forfeit. Ambrose would then burst into the ring and attack Rollins and a vicious brawl ensued where both men had to be pulled apart by both The Authority and security. Rollins was then shown leaving the arena into the parking lot, where Ambrose was hiding in the trunk of a car and attempted to attack Rollins with a tire iron before Rollins managed to drive away. On the August 4 edition of Raw, Ambrose won the Beat The Clock challenge against Rollins when he distracted him on his match to pick the stipulation for their match at SummerSlam. Later in the week on Smackdown, Ambrose revealed the stipulation to be a Lumberjack match against Rollins at SummerSlam. They fought at the SummerSlam pay-per-view where Ambrose lost to Rollins. The following night on Raw in Las Vegas, Nevada Triple H allowed the WWE Universe vote on the match stipulation for a rematch between Ambrose and Rollins that night on Raw. The stipulation ended up as a "Falls Count Anywhere" Match. During the contest Kane made his way out assisting Rollins. Kane uncovered a stack of cinder blocks at ring side and held Ambrose down to allow Rollins to perform his curb stomp on Amborse against the cinder blocks. Ambrose was then sent to a local medical center, had he not thrown off his restraints, refused treatment and escaped from WWE officials altogether and he hasn't been seen since that night. On Night of Champions, Ambrose returned and attacked Seth Rollins after Rollins issued an open challenge. On the October 6th episode of Raw, The Authority would make the first match of the Hell in a Cell pay-per-view to be Ambrose against John Cena with the stipulation of the winner facing Rollins in a Hell

Institutions can be designed to incite either version of human nature, to provoke adversarialism or unity. But in modern times, we’ve erred on the side of adversarialism. We see everything, from politics to business to the law, as a contest between winners and losers.

Hey, we’ll let Huckleberry enjoy his lunch. Speaking of something, if you are in a better mood now, come with me to the Rainforest Room. I have something to show you. I wanted to wait until you calmed down because it means a lot to me, and I hoped you might be happy for me. Here, come with me.” He led her back to the previous room, which had amazing, rare rainforest plants in it. “Check this out!” He tossed her a magazine that said Horticultural Digest on the cover. Holly neatly caught it and opened it up to the dog-eared page. Blaring across the page in huge font was the title: WILLIAM SMITH, THE RAINMAKER OF SHELLESBY COLLEGE’S FAMOUS RAINFOREST ROOM. It was a five-page spread with big glossy photos of the Rainforest Room sprinkled throughout the article. “Five, count ‘em, five pages! That’s my record. Until now, they’ve only given me four. Check it out: I’m the Rainmaker, baby! Let it rain, let it rainnnn!” William stomped around in make-believe puddles on the floor. He picked up a garden hose lying along the side of the room and held it upright like an umbrella. “I’m singing in the rain, just singing in the rain. What a glorious feeling. I’m happy again.” Holly squealed with laughter and applauded. William jumped up on a large over-turned pot and shifted the hose to now play air guitar while he repeated the verse. “William, there is no air guitar in that song!” “There is now, baby!” Holly exploded again in laughter, clutching her sides. After a few more seconds of air guitar, William jumped off the pot and lowered his voice considerably. “Thank you, thank you very much,” William said in his Elvis impersonation. He now held the garden hose like a microphone and said, “My next song is dedicated to my beagle, my very own hound dog, my Sweetpea. Sweetpea, girl, this is for youuuuuuu.” He now launched into Elvis’s famous “Hound Dog.” “You ain’t nothing but a hound dogggg.” With this, he also twirled the hose by holding it tight two feet from the nozzle, then twirling the nozzle in little circles above his head like a lasso. “Work it, William! Work it!” Holly screamed in laughter. He did some choice hip swivels as he sang “Hound Dog,” sending Holly into peals of laughter. “William, stop! Stop! Where are you? I can’t see I’m crying so hard!” William dropped his voice even lower and more dramatically. In his best Elvis voice, he said, “Well, if you can’t find me darlin’, I’ll find you.” He dropped on one knee and gently picked up her hand. “Thank you, thank you very much,” he said in Elvis mode. “My next song, I dedicate to my one and only, to my Holly-Dolly. Little prickly pear, this one’s for youuuuuu.” He now launched into Elvis’s famous “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You.” “Take my hand, take my whole life, too, for I can’t help falling in love with you.” With that, he gave her hand a soft kiss. He then jumped up onto an empty potting table and spun around once on his butt, then pushed himself the length of the entire table, and slid off the far end. “Loose, footloose!” William picked up his garden-hose microphone again and kept singing. “Kick off the Sunday shoes . . .” He sang the entire song, and then Holly exploded in appreciative applause. He was breathing heavily and had a million-dollar smile on his face. “Hoo-wee, that was fun! I am so sweaty now, hoo-boy!” He splashed some water on his face, and then shook his hair. “William! When are you going to enter that karaoke contest at the coffee shop in town? They’re paying $1,000 to the winner of their contest. No one can beat you! That was unbelievable!” “That was fun.” William laughed. “Are in a better mood now?” “How can I not be? You are THE best!

You know,” I said as we trudged homeward, “this is an important occasion, and not just because of this great discovery. According to my calculations, tomorrow will be our second anniversary on the island “ “Is this really true?” Elizabeth asked. “I can hardly believe so much time has passed.” “It is true, my dear,” I said. Think of all of the adventures that we have had and that we are safe, well-fed and happy. I am going to declare tomorrow a special day of celebration.” “You mean that we are going to have a party?” cried Francis, jumping for joy. “Oh, I can hardly wait!” Actually, Francis did not have long to wait, for when the morning dawned, Elizabeth and I had the entire day’s festivities planned. Greeting my sons on the lawn beneath Falcon’s Nest, I said, “For the past two years, you boys have been practicing wrestling, running, swimming, shooting and horseback riding here on the island. Now, we are going to determine the champions of these feats.” So, the competitions began, with Elizabeth cheering the boys and Turk and Flora running alongside them. Unquestionably, the highlight of the day was the horseback-riding event. Fritz mounted Lightfoot and Ernest rode Grizzle, but they were no match for Jack’s skillful handling of the wild buffalo. A practiced groom could not have managed a thoroughbred horse with more grace and ease. “Jack, my boy,” I boomed, “I hereby declare you the winner of this contest.” “No, Papa.” interrupted Francis. “You haven’t seen what I can do yet.” Francis rode into the arena, mounted on his young buffalo bull, Broumm, which was just four months old. Elizabeth had made a saddle of kangaroo skin and stirrups that adjusted to Francis’s little legs.

If you were to enter a shrubbery in a horticultural society gardening contest and wished to wager on the outcome as to the winner, would you bet your hedge?

What is preserved by the constancy of numerical boundaries, of course, is the possibility that all contestants can agree on an eventual winner.

He was the second contest winner,” Jonas answers, “the one who survived. Tom, how liable are we?

When a martial art exists in two forms, the original self-defense form and a sport/competition form with rules for determining “winners,” the boundaries tend to blur, and effectiveness in self-defense can be sacrificed to effectiveness in scoring points in a rule governed contest.

Socialist, Labour, and social-democratic parties have gradually come to be seen as increasingly favorable to the winners in the educational contest while they have lost the support they used to enjoy among less well-educated groups in the postwar period.113

What can’t be stressed enough is that resurrection theory is about material bodies. A spiritual body may not be made of the gross matter of the flesh, but it is still made of matter. Hence it is a scientific phenomenon in the scientific world…and science of course has not found even one trace of any such bodies. In this view, God is a material being and so is heaven, so scientists could find a way to identify heaven, or blow it up, or kill God, or imprison him, or subject God and all the souls to massive bursts of deadly gamma rays…or whatever else. Equally, scientists could study these spiritual bodies and work out how to give us all one, regardless of the wishes of God. Once you place God, heaven and souls in the material plane, you have put religion completely at the mercy of science and in direct competition with it. There can only be one winner in that contest… and it ain’t “God”. Any religious person would have to be crazy to believe in resurrection theory because it is a materialist and hence scientific theory, capable of being scientifically refuted.

But you lost the contest,” Annabeth said. “That’s the story written by the winner!” cried Arachne. “Look on my work! See for yourself!

Sexual selection has also made male bodies grow according to a higher-risk, higher-stakes strategy. For males there is a higher incidence of birth defects, more death in infancy, higher mortality at every age, earlier senescence, and greater variation in health, strength, body size, brain size, and intelligence. This risky, go-for-broke strategy suggests that sexual competition among males was often a winner-takes-all contest. It was better to take a big gamble on producing the most attractive image during a short peak, rather than aiming to create a mediocre impression over a long period of time.

Over the last decade “shareholder” has been replaced by “stakeholder.” I will remind my readers that a stakeholder is an onlooker to a gambling event. The contenders in the wager trust the stakeholder to hold their respective bets (the stakes) and at the contest’s conclusion to award them to the winner. The stakeholder is one who, by definition, can have neither interest nor profit in the outcome. I believe no further comment is required.

Kilgore Trout once wrote a story called "This Means You." It was set in the Hawaiian Islands, the place where the lucky winners of Dwayne Hoover’s contest in Midland City were supposed to go. Every bit of land on the islands was owned by only about forty people, and, in the story, Trout had those people decide to exercise their property rights to the full. They put up no trespassing signs on everything. This created terrible problems for the million other people on the islands. The law of gravity required that they stick somewhere on the surface. Either that, or they could go out into the water and bob offshore. But then the Federal Government came through with an emergency program. It gave a big balloon full of helium to every man, woman and child who didn’t own property.

in the absence of the old institutions, we are now each in charge of the making and maintaining of our own identity, and the burdens of selfhood have never been heavier. Hence, we are constantly negotiating our sense of self-worth. Sociologist Eva Illouz astutely points out that “the only place where you hope to stop that evaluation is in love. In love you become the winner of the contest, the first and only.”4 No wonder infidelity throws us into a pit of self-doubt and existential confusion.

Don Johnson announces he is leaving Miami, dealing a severe blow to the area’s hopes to repeat as winner of the Biggest Cockroach Contest.

The commissioners received thirty-three proposals; Vaux and Olmsted’s—entry no. 33—arrived on March 31, 1858, one day before the deadline. That deadline had already been pushed back a month, ostensibly to accommodate new specifications that had been added to the contest, but perhaps because Vaux and Olmsted weren’t ready. There’s no evidence the contest was rigged, but the second-, third-, and fourth-place winners also already

Jesus Christ, Polly Pocket! I’m supposed to look like I’ve been rushing, not like the winner of a wet T-shirt contest!” “Oh, right. My bad,” Polly said with a sheepish grin. “Okay. Now …” Lexi mussed her hair, threw her shoulders back, and then lifted her chin. “Drizzle me, baby. Make me sweat.

(By the way, I always found the winner to be a nice person. I suppose she was a little more honest and blunt than the rest of the contestants, hence the “bitch” label that people like to throw onto assertive women.)

There are no winners in a farting contest.

She seemed to take herself less seriously than did Parsons, though she was considered more accurate and more willing to personally check out her tips. “On the radio, Miss Hopper cheerfully admits her errors by giving herself the bird with a gold-plated mechanical canary,” wrote Current Biography in 1942. Her feud with Parsons was real, and in most popularity contests she came out the winner, pronounced by Life “infinitely more liked by the movie colony than her ruthless rival.” Her personal demeanor was highlighted by a colorful vocabulary and outrageous hats. She died Feb. 1, 1966.

Consider this set of coin-tossing possibilities, proposed by Warren Buffet. Suppose 225 million Americans all join in a coin-tossing contest in which each player bets a dollar each day on whether the toss of a coin will turn up heads or tails. Each day, the losers turn their dollars over to the winners, who then stake their winnings on the next day’s toss. The laws of chance tell us that, after ten flips on ten mornings, only 220,000 people will still be in the contest, and each will have won a little over $1,000. After that, the game heats up. Ten days later, only 215 people will still be playing, but each of them will be worth over $1,050,000. Buffet suggests that this small group of winners will marvel at their own skills. Some of them will write books on “How I Turned a Dollar into a Million in Twenty Days Working Thirty Seconds a Morning.” Or, they will tackle skeptical professors of finance with “If it can’t be done, why are there 215 of us?” But, Buffet goes on to point out, “. . . then some business school professor will probably be rude enough to bring up the fact that if 215 million orangutans had engaged in a similar exercise, the results would be much the same—215 egotistical orangutans with 20 straight winning flips.”22

Barbara Freethy is a #1 New York Times Bestselling Author of 52 novels ranging from contemporary romance to romantic suspense and women's fiction. Traditionally published for many years, Barbara opened her own publishing company in 2011 and has since sold over 6.5 million books! Twenty-two of her titles have appeared on the New York Times and USA Today Bestseller Lists. She is a six-time finalist and two-time winner in the Romance Writers of America acclaimed RITA contest.

The trickiest thing about writing about hospitality is that it requires using the word hospitality. I cringe. Heaven only knows why our desire to spend meaningful time with others is saddled with such a churchy, pearls-and-an-apron sounding word, conjuring up vivid Sunday school images of Mary and Martha. Even though I know Jesus preferred Mary's MO, I always felt like Martha was secretly the real winner of the contest. The fact that I still see it as a competition only further illustrates my need for this lesson in the first place.

1. Have a Dream This isn’t a get-rich-quick book - this is an insider’s guide on how to follow your heart, and live an empowered, effective, fun-filled life. And in a contest between the two, there is only ever one real winner. The place to start this life journey is with finding your dream. Dreams are powerful. They are among those precious few intangibles that have inspired men and women to get up, go to hell and back, and change the world. And I’m not talking about the sort of fantasy dreams that can’t physically happen - I am talking about the sort of dream that will inspire you, one that you are really prepared to sweat for, in order to make it become your reality. This quote from T.E. Lawrence means a lot to me: All men dream; but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.

February 26 DEFEATING GIANTS Then David said to the Philistine, "You come to me with a sword, with a spear, and with a javelin. But I come to you in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied." —1 Samuel 17:45 Every day, this giant named Goliath would come out into the battlefield and challenge the armies of Israel to a winner-take-all contest. Using his words, his armor, and his size, Goliath sought to intimidate Israel. And it worked. Saul's army faced the giant with great fear and dismay. But then along came David, who expressed great confidence before Goliath. David's confidence wasn't in himself, but in the Lord. He saw more power in the ability of God to deliver him than in this giant to destroy him. "It is not really a contest between the giant and me. It is a contest between the giant and the Lord. And though I wouldn't stand a chance against the giant, he doesn't stand a chance against the Lord." David saw the conflict as an opportunity to bring glory to God. We need a proper perspective of the giants in our lives. We need to take our eyes off of those problems and look instead on the Lord. We need to remember that God is for us, and He has made all the resources of heaven available to us. Through the power of the Lord, every giant in your life can fall. But you've got to trust Him. Father, we thank You that You are bigger than any giant we may face. Help us to remember that the battle is not won with swords and spears and the wisdom of man, but with the power of the eternal God. Amen