It’s not too late to enter my Worst Short Story contest!

The best damn written story ever. And also the Worst.

Eric the Gray

Frankenstein Meets the Space MonsterI’ve gotten some good, I mean bad submissions so far, but I hope to see even more drek before this whole thing is done. Make the judging really painful for me!

You have until 11:59:59.999999 p.m. on September 30th to enter. The rules, prize, and other details are here, but the basics are: I’m looking for the worst short story you can write in 100 words or fewer. This is real Blaze of Glory stuff. Make your family proud.

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3 thoughts on “It’s not too late to enter my Worst Short Story contest!

  1. I am not sure I can capture the true essence of what I am feeling right now—at least not in mere words. I suggest it is not possible, perhaps due to the limits of our magnificent English language, but more so the fact that I have spent the last two hours drinking three dozen cans of hot beer, which I found in the gutted remains of an abandoned grocery cart, which was orphaned behind a dilapidated, out-of-business K-Mart.
    I have waited my whole life for something like this so-called “Worst possible Short Story ever” contest.
    You see, I have always wanted to hang myself in the closet, I have wanted this above all things, ever since I was eight years old; However, I never really had a good reason justify doing so.
    Eric Baker, I tell you today though, now I see your challenge to me as the possible solution to everything that held me back for so many years.
    With the benefit of a good buzz, I have fully invested myself in a written work that is well in excess of 100 words. It is not technically a short story. It is verbose, meandering, yet nonetheless a justly horrible piece of writing. It has no clear plot, no discernible point, and there is no valued moral to glean from it. In fact, I do not recall taking the effort to even spell check it.
    I warn all of you listening today, this not an uplifting ecstasy of words, which flowed effervescing from a golden fountain pen.
    No, This black, flower grows from the womb of my own personal pain. In addition, I wrote the larger part of it sobering up. A time when all I could really do was, shrivel down into the melancholy and failure that comes with the bitterest drunkard’s remorse.
    Nevertheless, I want the world to know that what I say here today, I dedicate to my beloved great grandfather Ivan, a German immigrant, who stepped off the deck of an immense boat in New York over a hundred and thirty so years ago. He came to this country with dreams of a bright future–for himself and the generations that would spring from his loins. This ghastly short story would have literally killed Grandpa Ivan. In addition, I am sure he would literally done his best to kill me, in order to stop it from unfolding here. However, that would be a lot to ask, and even more to hope for, as he is, of course, quite dead and buried..
    But a greater harm than killing my grathfather; I truly believe this knotted rope of incoherent words will only serve to publically humiliate me in front of the entire academic literary world.
    I also feel confident, that after my subsequent and quite violent suicide; this putrid story will serve to shame my surviving loved ones for generations to come, with a blotch more gruesome than that one enormous purple birthmark, which roofed the entire scalp of former Soviet Leader. Mikhail Gorbachev
    All of you fine people here: hear me now. I want you to know, that your children will spit upon the poor relatives I have so recklessly tainted to add to their misery. In addition, you will surely will all applaud, and laugh, and your children, will run amok with large sticks and will eat sweet, sweet. Jolly Ranchers candy from a broken piñata, hanging on a dead, tree. In addition, it shall be a glorious Piñata made in my likeness, to mock me posthumously.
    I want you to know that I do not possess the degree of character it takes to forgive even one of you bastards for any injustices in advance of this certain likelihood.

    However, unlike you, I have the joy, and boastful pride, and the knowledge that at least I will have one glorious moment dangling at the End of a long rope. It is here that I will exact my revenge in my unsightly asphyxiation and frantic kicking. In addition, I shall curse the very name, “Eric John Baker” in my mind, for baiting me into this horrible short story contest.
    I would expect no less from any likeminded misanthrope from New Jersey, who pretends, and affects the manner and appearance of a true writer.
    Thank you. I am have nothing more to say. I have said it all. And I hope you can agree that I did it disgracefully.

  2. You are such a gruesome world bully. I have never seen such an irretrievably, anal, obsessive control freak. I am sure you nail you kid to the floor at nights. Are you seriously passing me by on the Special Olympics “Everybody Wins! Ribbon?” All over some arbitrary autocratic tax program that you call word count? Well, Well, Its Eric Baker’s 12th birthday party all over again! You and your Wrinkled Goddamned Monopoly Money. Money..which you made each of us beg on our knees for, and we took it, at an nonnegotiable interest rate of. 47 % you didn’t actually own Park Place Avenue. I hope your money made you happy. Because I am going to make your life a living hell.

    I don’t have a hundred words left in me. But I am thinking of only two right now.

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