I thought y'all might get a kick out of playing:

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You’ve seen the latest wave of spam — you know, the faux outrageous news headlines: “Osama trains goats for tactical bombing.” “Laika the Russian space dog returns to Earth.” “Children admit to being little shits: Video.” Isn’t it a shame the headline is all we get? So here at Weird Tales we’re inviting YOU to turn this spam into… um… spam-ade!

Write a flash-fiction story — under 500 words — based on a spam you’ve received. Send your story, along with the headline that inspired it, to contest at weirdtales dot net before 9 a.m. on Monday, Aug. 4. The Weird Tales editorial team will judge them, and three winners will be announced at the Weird Tales reception on Friday, Aug. 8 at the World Science Fiction Convention in Denver!

The first-, second-, and third-place winners will all be published online at WeirdTalesMagazine.com the week of August 11. The first- and second-place winners will also receive three free issues of Weird Tales; and the first-place winner will also receive an autographed copy of Ekaterina Sedia’s incredible new novel The Alchemy of Stone.

(If you’ve thrown away all your own spam, writer Adam Israel has compiled a humongous collection of spam headlines here. Be forewarned that adult language abounds therein.)

We encourage you to spread this announcement far and wide. But note: entries from Nigeria will be examined very closely.

Sure. I'm totally for this. I love to spam. Ask Linda.

I've spamed with the best of them. I'll come up with something... just let me put on my tin foil beanie hat and my best dress and I'm all set .Zzzzzzzzooooooooooooom......

This is very cool and deserves a bump.

Thanks, Tuna!

Bumping again! Deadline nears!

I picked slutty horses!

I picked Boy Eats Rats Daily!

And why not? They're delicious!

mmmm, rats!

I didn't win a Spammy, but thought I'd share my entry.


Spam headline: 4Grownups, slutty horses?



"Stay away from slutty horses,” she said as I stepped into the trailer to leave the farm, possibly for the last time.

It was a cool spring morning, the type of day meant to remind you that summer is coming, but winter will be a bugger to get rid of -- crisp and clear and with a hint of warming sun. I remember how the grass was coming in nicely that year, thick and green and already knee high in some spots. It was the kind of day you think back on when you're wishing it could be perfect all the time.

"Stay away from slutty horses." Of all the advice my mother gave me, those five words seemed to be the most innocuous, the type of thing said by moms afraid of losing their little boys to adulthood. But she was always smarter than I gave her credit for.

I was finally on my way to the big city to be a pro. I'd been running for years, just like her, just like my dad and just like the rest of my family. It was something that was in our blood, and I guess the pros saw it the same way that I felt it.

My mother, of course, didn't want me to go. She was too close to it, having been a professional herself. "They'll use you, just like they did your uncle. You remember him, right, 8-Mile Mike? Remember what happened to him? "

Eight-Mile Mike was a two-year old colt on his way to the big time. He was fast and graceful in the way that the rest of us can only dream of being. But as good as he was he had picked up a few bad habits when he started to run with the feed dealers, the stud handlers -- people more interested in their own purses than his glory.

But that didn't stop him from winning, and after some quick success, 8-Mile Mike was set for the biggest race of his life.

But like I said, he’d picked up a few bad habits. 8-Mile Mike never made it out of the gate that day, too tired to go after a night with a mare in the next stable. The next day, he was sold him to a petting zoo

I vowed to myself and to my mother that that wouldn't happen to me. I promised, and I ran and I ran. But sometimes destiny is unstoppable. Sometimes, it's more than just running that's in your blood.

"Stay away from slutty horses." I was a 2-year-old colt when I met her, whatever her name was, a Shetland pony brought in for family day at the track. She was small and I was big. I stumbled and broke my hoof.

I never made it to the gate that day or any day after that. Instead, I’m here, back on the farm, where children ride me for fun, and where there are no slutty horses.