man's ego dented part deux

The winners of the Rhys Davies short story prize being announced by then of October, and having heard nothing from them, I can only assume I have not won or even been placed. I can ascribe this to the following three possible explanations:
1. My stories were not good enough.
2. The judges don't know a good story when they see one.
3. My stories were good, but that even better ones were submitted.
I have been trying not to be too disappointed by this development, reminding myself that many great writers never won a competition in their lives, and also that sometimes competitions are fixed. Franz Kafka won a short story prize early in his twenties, and the victory marked the blossoming of his career. Decades later it emerged that his publisher had nobbled the jury to ensure his success.

But then, just as I was resolving not to let this reverse adversely affect my morale, an even more bitter blow struck home. I read one of my better stories to a close friend who had not read any of my other work. She pronounced the ending "weak" and my general style "flowery". Could there be a worse condemnation of one's work? I think not. The listener was not a writer herself, but an avid reader, and therefore a legitimate judge at least at one level. Flowery! I am still reeling from this devastating dismissal of my literary efforts. One thought is never to write another word, a feeling which I am struggling to get past and somehow regain my confidence. But how?