The Redhead is NOT picking finalists.
Here’s how the voting works:
- ZOMG, ask your friends to vote for your submission by directing them to the post (and here’s a shortened link for your convenience: http://ht.ly/2reUK)
- If you have a blog, you might find it useful to make a blog post including the link, asking your readers to stop by and check out your story. Give them your user name and the contest rules. Reach out to your email subscribers!
- Your friends will need to leave a comment below your post with the reason they liked the story. Yes, I’m a BITCH. (Does a little dance…shakes pompoms)
- The entry with the most legitimate comments WINS. What’s a legitimate comment?
- Ones that are sent from DIFFERENT IP ADDRESSES (remember, game the system and God kills a puppy)
- And actually state with some semblance of having opposable thumbs WHY they like the story.
- Voting closes at 11PM on Wednesday, August 25, 2010.
Why the comments as the voting mechanism instead of my previous poll-style voting?
It’s simple. If you’re looking to be a writer, people actually need to like the shit you write instead of vote for it blindly. There are some pretty intriguing stories in the contest, and I encourage you to take 10 minutes out of your day for a fiction treat. Wouldn’t you rather people share with you why they felt something worked instead of, “Yeah – hope you win! You owe me a lunch for the 30 votes I gamed for you at the office.”
And I promised you my story. So here it is.
And so it turns out that he was wrong. And not just a little wrong, but the kind of wrong that brings about swearing. And not your run-of-the-mill swearing. The kind of swearing that gets you glares from mothers with young children.
Upon this realization of his wrongness, he could feel an imaginary bevy of breeders launch their piercing stare, hands flailing to hermetically seal tiny ears. Ears that would undoubtedly cause little lips to repeat what they had just heard at the most inopportune of times. And then they would know what the glares feel like.
But it didn’t matter. The mothers, ears, lips and glares – all imaginary. Just one of his brain’s machinations enacted to distract him from the reality that he was dead fucking wrong this whole time.
He stood motionless underneath the bus stop shelter, the two-dimensional eyes of some shithead dink realtor staring at the back of his head. If he felt it would do any good, he’d have no qualms about telling
Mark Miller, Realtor
Your home sold in 30 DAYS OR LESS – GUARANTEED!
to fuck straight off.
The bus was late, and this annoyed him even more. He was actually looking forward to his thoughts being drowned-out by the diesel engine’s drone. Every second the bus was late was another he was forced to fester in his putrid reality. His thoughts filled with the pervasive stench of rancid ideas and notions, all of which he’d found entertaining in their previous incarnations.
There was nowhere to dump them right now. Not until the bus came and he could feed his thoughts to the bus’ guttural hum.