Mini Sledgehammers | Sledgehammer Writing Contest

Mini Sledgehammer November 2015

Posted on November 16, 2015 by writer

Edward Gutiérrez took home the prizes this month. Congratulations!

The prompts were:
Character: Your high school sweetheart
Action: Removing a hang nail
Setting: Sonora, Mexico
Prop: A hot dog

My Little Fat Boy

The bell rings. It’s the end of second period. The teacher left the edward pic classroom door open for all the kids to walk out single file. The lunchroom isn’t far. I can see Andre through the window that faces out to the street. He’s speed walking toward the lunch line and all the other kids are two steps behind.

Andre loves to eat. just like his dad. I remember when I was his age, I would steal all the other kids’ lunch tickets on pig-in-a-blanket day. My nickname wasn’t El Gordo (the fat man) for nothing. Now Andre is walking the same halls that I did. Anyway I digress. Today I’m here to volunteer at my little fat boy’s school. I need to make up for the all chocolate bars we ate that we were supposed to sell for the school’s annual fundraiser. To be fair we only ate about half, we gave away a bunch to Andre’s cousins.

I’m making my way out of the school office and down the stairs over to the lunchroom. I look and Dre, short for Andre, is putting mustard and ketchup meticulously on his hot dog bun. As I walk closer I can see he has managed to put two weenies on his bun. How’d he get the second one? I think to myself and smile. That’s my boy! just like his papi. When he notices me Dre puts down his ketchup packets, steps off the cafeteria table, runs up and hugs me. What a feeling. “Go eat” I say, “Dre remember, 40 chews for each mouthful” … Yea right.

The joy in my heart quickly fades as I see the assistant principal, Mrs. Vasquez. I know her when she was just Vicky. We go way back, from middle school all the way to high school. We were sweethearts back then. “Come with me” she says. I gesture to Andre and walk up the stairs behind Mrs.Vasquez. We walk in her office. She grabs a hammer, gloves, and a plunger. “Your first task, unclog the boy’s bathroom.” “Thanks” I tell her as I reach for the hammer “no no” she says, “i’ll need this for later.” I think to my puzzled self, WTF? – for later? what’s that supposed to mean? She can’t still be pissed about prom night.

Ten minutes later i’m changing my socks in the maintenance closet. The boys bathroom was tougher than I thought and I’m a mess. I hear footsteps outside the door. Then I hear two knocks and the deadbolt locks. Suddenly I hear in Spanish, “Puto! Eres un Puto! Muerete!” (Whore! you’re a male whore! die!). Aw shit. Prom night, she’s still pissed.

I go for the door and it’s locked. No windows, no crawl spaces anywhere. I gotta open the door. No sense on banging on it, shoot, i’m in the school basement. I reach for the toolbox and think, if I can just pry the door hinges off with the…, damn that witch, no hammer! I look around and see a set of keys behind the furnace. It’s too hot. If I can just shut it off and reach for the keys. I just need the valve key. I look 10 feet up and see a gas valve key on a hangnail pinned to the wall. Shit, no hammer! That’s the last Mexican girl from Sonora I’ll ever cheat on.

***

Dedicated to the memory of my friend Bryan Tinti.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers, Uncategorized | Tagged: Edward Gutierrez, free, Mexico, Portland, prizes, Sledgehammer, writing contest | Leave a comment »

Mini Sledgehammer October 2015

Posted on October 15, 2015 by writer

This month’s Mini Sledgehammer marked a slight changing of the guards. John and Daniel have been leading this fun monthly contest for over a year, and this was John’s last month. Thanks for all you’ve done for us, John! And thanks for continuing to lead us, Daniel!

Ashley Michael Karitis was our very deserving winner this month. Read on for her fantastic story. Congratulations, Ashley!

Prompts:

Character: Custodian

Action: Presidential Debate

Setting: Wedding

Phrase: “Why didn’t you tell me?”

***

The Abridged Memoirs of a Custodian

by Ashley Michael Karitis

Clyde was, in what might be considered, the loneliest of professions.

Each afternoon, he would arrive at the empty aisles of St. Jean’s Parish to tend to the multitude of custodial sins: cobwebs in the gothic arches, splatters on the stained glass (portraying the station of the cross), picking out lint in the oak and maple pews, and vacuuming the animal cracker crumbs left over from the little ones whose parents tried keeping them occupied with said simple carbohydrates.

Lonely these days may have seemed, but lonely, he was not. Clyde was privy to moments that were important enough to call on those far and wide—friends and family, and even those who would need to forgive each other in order to come together for such special gathering.

In his thirty-seven years as a custodian, Clyde had attended more weddings, funerals, christenings, and masses than all of the priests combined who had rotated in and out over the years.

Special, these moments and gatherings were, but Clyde was still not part of them. He was only an observer, sometimes unwelcome, on the fray, and always behind the scenes. Nobody really wanted to see a spotted-faced, balding man in coveralls on their wedding day. Yet, he was the unseen enabler, for one flick of a switch and the christening of Patrick Joseph or The March of the Brides would come to a crashing halt.

Clyde could recount every type of wedding you could possibly have under the roof of God’s House: painfully planned nuptials to ensure family legacies; unions to provide for an unexpected baby bump; marriages that had taken place during custodial hours, out of sight of forbidding parents. He had seen groom and bride spat with each other as though they were in a presidential debate, sometimes ending with a slap in the face and a “Why didn’t you tell me!?” Never assuming, Clyde dutifully clean up the flower petals, rice, and extra paper programs.

Usually, the tense, happy, or excited couples would return to the parish with a new babe to be doused with holy water, draped in a stale lacey gown. Clyde would set up the bath and rearrange the potted seasonal flowers—just so the mothers would feel extra special—and afterward he would mop up the excess drops of bath water that speckled the altar.

Through all these celebrations, Clyde never feared, avoided, or felt sad about the funerals that came and went every week. How could a funeral be any less important than a wedding or christening? How could he feel sad for the dead, and for those that came to celebrate and memorialize their person’s life?

For Clyde, being a custodian had been his own ritual, just as these events in St. Jean’s had been rituals. It was a ritual of living vicariously, and letting the joys and sorrows of others brim over into his world.

***

Ashley was raised in Bend, OR. She is a documentary filmmaker based in Portland, OR that dabbles in travel writing. She is currently working on her first compilation of short stories.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers, Uncategorized | Tagged: Ashley Michael Karitis, Custodian, free, Portland, Presidential debate, prizes, Sledgehammer, writing contest | Leave a comment »

Mini Sledgehammer August 2015

Posted on August 24, 2015 by writer

We’re excited to announce that Kris Lovesey, frequent Mini Sledgehammerer, won this month!

Prompts:
Character: A journalist
Action: Popping a bottle of champagne
Setting: Stairs
Phrase: “I’ve seen weirder fish than that.”

***

Bretta & Gretta

by Kris Lovesey

Bretta arrived the morning earlier, at six thirty. She came on the first train from Berlin. Gretta hadn’t seen Bretta since she left for school eight years ago.

Two days ago, a spring storm blew over the towns spire. It had been standing for three-hundred seventeen years without any repairs, until it crashed to the ground- killing a known vagrant. No one in the town cared much for the vagrant and it was an annoyance for the clergy involved, to plan a burial they knew they were obligated to do- but wouldn’t receive a penny for.

Bretta came because she was a field journalist for a Berlin archeological publication, specializing in early Christianity.

The fallen spire cracked wide open revealing carvings in a rare early Germanic script. The whole spire would end up in Berlin, to be picked over ad nauseum. Bretta took the photos and wrote the story which would spark great interest in this spire- from this tiny town.

But we shall digress. And digressions end up in taverns, with the vagrants who didn’t get squashed by the tower. They were figuring out who Thomas (the squashed one) owed what, and if there was a way to settle his debts without him.

Bretta and Gretta were also in the tavern catching up. Of the vagrants Gregor was the most drunk. He just sold Thomas a cart, which he had burnt to a cinder pile before receiving the second half of the money for it. And, he noisily demanded the rest of the bunch to at least pay his tab for the night, as he had obviously lost much more than the rest of them at the hands of God squashing Thomas.

Gretta showed disdain for the men but Bretta assured her the down-and-out men of Berlin were much worse.

“I’ve seen weirder fish than that.” Were her exact words.
“Well, I don’t put up with their shit.” Gretta tensed up.

The bar lady popped the ladies a bottle of champagne. The cork hit Gregor square in the temple. Causing him to drop his beer. His foot slipped off the glass, sending him through a small cloth curtain door. Everyone in the in the tavern turned- hearing Gregor fall down into the cellar. Where a fifty farthing piece actually lodged itself under his shoulder blade.

Gregor awoke the next morning a beetle, and the rest is Kafka’s Metamorphisis.

Gretta did it. Killed them both. They definitely deserved it. They had done many terrible things. And it was time the world learnt the secrets in the spire.

***

Kris Lovesey is bloody sick of the status quo. Threatens to walk to Canada. Snores. Is trying to get Box Truck Press off the ground. Cant quite get around to making the most amazing cat coloring book known to mankind- seriously, aliens will come down to steal it, y’all just wait and see. Kris is fifteen feet tall, 2000 pounds of furry and kindness. Works for kisses on the cheek, chocolate, marijuana, and little pieces of paper with dead people on it. If you’re bored, he doesn’t care about you, but instead will recommend you read one of the many awesome books in the universe (or one by Box Truck Press). Box Truck Press doesn’t have a Box Truck yet, but watch out cause we are saving up those pieces of paper with dead people on them. #boxtruckpress on twitter. Kris demands you have awesome days, awesome sex, and if you miss an awesome sunset- just try and catch the next one. They happen at almost the same time each day, just to keep us all on our toes. Kris cares about you deeply.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Kris Lovesey, Mini Sledgehammer, popping a bottle of champagne, writing contest | 1 Comment »

Mini Sledgehammer June 2015

Posted on June 15, 2015 by writer

Big congratulations to J. Turner Masland, for whom this is his first time seeing his fiction published! We proud to post your work.

***

Character: A drummer

Action: Tipping a waiter

Setting: A cemetery

Prop: A cellar door

***

Untitled

by J. Turner Masland

I can never tell if the flirtation from a food service worker is because they find me attractive or if they just want a big tip. Either way, I love the attention.

It was June and I was two weeks into to a new city. Feeling lonely and a little lost, my evenings were spent seeking human contact. Anything from eye contact to everlasting friendship. Especially after my arduous days in a sterile and soul crushing call center, dealing with customer complaints all day, I needed a little real life face to face interaction.

All the stools at the bar in the restaurant around the corner from my dingy sublet are fully occupied, so I grab a table. Which I don’t mind, but it makes it harder to chat with my fellow patrons.

“Hi. My name is Tony and I will be taking care of you tonight. What can I get you, handsome?” The waiter looks down over his pad with a twinkle in his eye. I start to sweat. Usually I only get attention from men when I am four or five whiskeys in at the trashy gay bar downtown. I feel that electric charge that hits the pit of my stomach and zaps my groin that comes with flirty with a really cute guy.

“Whisky ginger.”

“Coming right up.”

With each drink comes more eye contact, more sly smiles, a few probing questions. All from him. Again, I can’t tell if he wants the tip or he wants… the tip. But I am hungry for his attention. And with each drink I get bolder. And happier. And warmer

Soon it’s approaching midnight.

“Well, handsome, my shift is over. Can I cash you out?”

“Of course,” I reply, “only if I get your number.”

“Better yet,” He says ”why don’t you join me for a walk. I always need to unwind after my shifts. And it’s a full moon. Perfect for a late night stroll”

Fuck. Yes. I smile and nod

It’s one of those magical summer nights. Cool breeze in the air, but the sun’s warmth from earlier is radiating off the concrete. The moon is bright and the stars seem to dance.

We wander through the neighborhood. I tell him about my move and my job and I stop when I start to mention my loneliness. He listens and nods.

Soon we hear drumming. Which feels odd. Mostly because we are approaching the lone pine cemetery.

I look to my handsome waiter “Drumming?” I ask

It’s June and a full moon in Portland” he says, “I am surprised this is the first drum circle we’ve stumbled across.”

We enter the cemetery. The gravestones seem to flow fluorescent in the moonlight. I expected there is be a fire. Most nocturnal drum circles I experienced back east were always around a camp fire.

But not this one. a few dozen drummers were around an angelic statue. The marble figure looked up to the sky, as if it was beseeching a higher power. The rhythm was steady. I couldn’t tell if wa rehearsed or improved. But it was animalistic. Along with the drummers were a few dancers, with dark fabric over their arms, looking like bat wings.

Time was lost. I don’t know if we stood there for five minutes or five hundred. That electricity in my stomach was replaced by the beats of the drummers. The dancers turned from bats to angels to birds. The swirled and flew and floated. They stars started to spin and the moon pulsed with the rhythm of the drummers.

Through the chaos, I locked eyes with one drummer. A light seemed to emanate from him and his gaze felt inviting. As if he wanted me to join his collective. As if I was brought here, to this grave yard for that purpose. And for a brief moment I wanted to.

But then Tony’s warm breath was on the back of my neck as he whispered into my ear. I couldn’t hear what he said over the drummer. But feeling my handsome waiter face so close to my own sent that zap of electricity back through my body overpowering the rhythm of the drummers.

Tony’s hand slipped into mine and he led me away into the night.

Had I know that I would be found dead, head cracked open and thrown through a cellar door into the basement of an abandoned building. I would have stayed there. At the drum circle. Taking the drummer’s invitation and joining the dancers. Using my feet, my hands, my body to contribute to the rhythm. Had I known, I would have never taken that handsome waiters hand.

***

J. Turner Masland is a librarian, currently working at Portland State University as the Access Services Assistant Manager. Originally from new Hampshire, he has lived in Portland since 2006. When not in the library, he enjoys hiking, swimming, trips to the coast and working on his writing. You can learn more about him at masland.weebly.com or follow him on twitter @deweysnotdead.

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Mini Sledgehammer May 2015

Posted on May 25, 2015 by writer

Congratulations to Elizabeth Grace Martin, a new Sledgehammerer who wrote a winning story on her first try!

***

Character: Ice cream vendor

Action: Recycling

Setting: In the rain

Prop: Smoke

***

Burnt Ice Cream

by Elizabeth Grace Martin

Maven got a rush from the flick of the lighter. The burn of the cigarette down her lungs felt like the appropriate amount of unhealthy. Fuck healthy. She liked smoke and ice cream. She even dyed her hair to add a swirl of gray to damage her streak of brunette.

After being recycled in the foster care system, she fated herself into a runaway. That’s when the gray came—a nod to the wisdom she decided she was due—not the wisdom she’s earned.

The smoke came before the streets. Fire was home. Maven didn’t much like the term “arsonist.” She preferred creator. She burned ugly away. It gave her control over something—at least that’s what her therapist claimed. Fuck him.

She didn’t see him more than once. Maven didn’t see anyone more than once. Judgment stays at bay when you don’t let people know you. Only she needed to know her.

So she hopped trains and claimed the title explorer. She slept in barns with livestock and thought herself a farmer. She was neither. Maven was a homeless runaway, but a good marketer. But even runaways need a break; even runaways need an identity.

The train Maven was currently riding stopped for fuel or to load or unload. Fuck if she knew. But the day was bright, sweat grouped at the bottom of her spine.

“Ice cream,” she said to no one. No one was her favorite audience. The jump from the train car to the red rocks below sent a shock up her legs—the kind that reminds you you’re still alive. Pain, fleeting but passionate.

Maven lit her first cigarette of the day and walked along the tracks until the town came into view. She’d never been to Arizona before, but it felt like every other place. She lit another cigarette as soon as she stomped her first one out on the metal track.

The tracks went straight and she curved to the left. The siren song of the ice cream truck was calling her. It sounded like home.

On the first main street she crossed, she pick-pocketed an empty-faced stranger. The siren was getting closer.

“Banana split,” Maven called to the ice cream vendor.

A man with naturally gray hair and newsboy cap popped his head out of the freezer and into her view.

“Hi there, Miss. How are you?”

“Banana split,” Maven repeated, ignoring the vendor’s inquiry.

“Talkative aren’t you?”

“Not to strangers.”

“How do you ‘pect to make friends?”

“What?” her attitude was showing through. This was already the longest conversation Maven had had in months. “Fuck man, you got a banana split or not?”

“Fresh out. Fudgicle?”

“Whatever.”

“It’s on the house,” he said, eyeing Maven’s unwashed hair and wrinkled clothes.

“Take care.”

She wanted to be snotty. She wanted to ruin him with words. But Maven bit her tongue and accepted the Fudgicle before it melted under the Arizona sun.

She nodded at him. He smiled, toothy. It was the best he was going to get from a runaway punk and they both knew it. Maven couldn’t shake the interaction. No one is nice to her. She gives no one a reason to. She felt uneasy about it. She followed the ice cream vendor that day, touring the city in his shadows.

When the sun dunked into the night, he parked the truck and Maven kept watching it. She flicked her lighter in front of her. Up and down, the flame teased her, called her like the siren song of ice cream trucks.

She answered.

The fire started to burn slowly. Deliberately. The tires melted into puddles and the ice cream would soon do the same. She watched the damage long enough to feel satisfied. The smoke pillowed the sky into more darkness and she walked away, without remorse, into the rain.

The fire won again.

***

Elizabeth can often be found talking to her dog like he’s a real human boy, being inspired by TED Talks, and creating an ever-growing travel wish list. Her newest dream is to live in a tiny house mansion. Her longest dream is to be a best-selling author. She’s working on one of those at: www.elizabethgracemartin.com.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Elizabeth Grace Martin, fiction, ice cream, Mini Sledgehammer, Portland, short story, writing contest | Leave a comment »

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