Thanks so much to our 2011 20-Pounder sponsors, who have each donated $500 or more worth of prizes!
Congratulations to the 2011 Sledgehammer 36-Hour Writing Contest winners!
First Place Team:
Team Baldwin, “No Apocalypse in the Rose City”
First Place Individual:
Dora Raymaker, “Butterflies and Thunder”
Readers’ Choice Award:
Lisa Galloway, “Exalted and Extinguished”
They’ll each go home with prizes galore, thanks to our very generous sponsors.
Watch the site for upcoming readings by these talented writers!
Hash browns or toast?
I’m doing my hammer dance. “U can’t touch this…”
I saw a quail run
I ate a cinnabun
Now I weigh a ton
And can’t go out to run.
Why is the comments required? Is this like a test to see if you are good enough for the contest. Oh man, I didn’t have anything prepared. Is this bad?
In need of prompting.
[We] are stoked about the writing adventure that is this contest.
Kids, thanks for putting together this rollocking good time that really lets writers display their chops.
I have no more words to use for famous last words.
If I could do it over again, I’d use more puppets.
We may be a smidge embarrassed!
There is a Thor!
First timers–ready for beginners’ luck!
It’s short and sassy–just like me!
We are rockstars!
____, ____ ____; ______.
I may never write a solo project again.
There are way too many bums on the MAX!
We did it!
Thanks to my wife!
Number 9 and such.
I only have love in my heart…
Project Runway FTW
Remind me to eat next time.
Down with mayonnaise!
by Dr. Huckleberry
Leslie put her hand on her hip, cocked her head to the side and with a high-pitched, back of the throat breath gasped, “When we get back, I have an appointment to get my hair done by my boyfriend, Thor. He’s gay, but he sends me cute thank-you cards.” Leslie says this with a conspiratorial wink at her daughter. By this time Bob, her husband, was already ignoring her, glancing at the faces in the crowd, scanning for signs of anyone he had just seen on the Jumbo-tron. And terrorists, of course.
by Matthew Braun
His knees always told him when the rain was coming. Before he got out of bed or turned on the news to watch the smiling idiots. Before he even opened his eyes, he knew the weather for the day.
As Carl looked at himself in the mirror he examined his wispy red hair for evidence of further loss, admired his relic of a bushy moustache, and settled into the mindless routine of the morning.
The wipers kept cadence on the 65–‐mile drive down the Gorge into work while he listened to Rush Limbaugh. The tirade was interrupted by the tone from the Bluetooth on the Ford’s stereo.
by Jeremy Nelson
When people take the time to ask me who I am and how I got to be here today, I tell them about my therapist and the conversations we had about my condition and how I endured. I tell them about my childhood and the end of a dream. I was a failed superhero.
No Rain in the Rose City
by Shelley Stearns and Jody Jones
Lela wiped her hands across the bus kiosk. The city’s public transit map lit up under her palm, revealing a web of confused colors inter-tangled like a basket of yarn. She moved her fingers in and out to separate one from the next. Her line—the two sixty-three—blinked in bright fuchsia. She double-clicked, bringing it to the foreground. The doors to the fuchsia MAX opened blasting cool air around her. She stepped on and brushed her hands across her jeans. The chill was always shocking, but she settled into it. A bit of fuzz stuck in the snaggle of her left fingernail. She let it sit for a moment, and then threw it to the ground. She sighed and bit on the part of the nail that was sticking out.