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 »

Mini Sledgehammer April 2015

Posted on April 20, 2015 by writer

Julia Himmelstein is back with another amazing story!

***

Character: The cowgirl
Action: Watching British television
Setting: the factory
Prop: A milk jug

***

Untitled

by Julia Himmelstein

It had been a while since the cowgirl had been around. He had been watching for her, shyly, spending lapses of evenings by the kitchen sink, washing the same four dishes, while peering out the window. It wasn’t really her looks that got to him, just the fact that she was so incredibly out of place. The first time, he had wondered if this was a mistaken Halloween costume, a drunken party guest in the wrong part of town. Their eyes had met as he sat on his front stoop, tongue-tied. The fringes on her leather vest rustled in the light breeze, and she made a funny clicking noise with her boots, as though commanding an invisible horse. Long after she was gone, he thought he could hear the click-clack of her boots on the pavement.

They saw each other every few nights after that, she always wearing gingham and leather, and he always staring, dumbfounded. “Just say something to her, man,” he muttered to himself, channeling one of his high school buddies that surely would have had the balls to talk to her, and probably say something incredibly rude. But those friends were long gone, off to work in the factories that made pointless gadgets for white folks. It was just him now, him and his four dishes and the cat Theo. He couldn’t remember the last time he had talked to a human, let alone see one in real life. He used to have video chats with his sister, but that was before the internet cut out. Now when he wanted to see people he popped in one of the British Television discs that he had found in a closet when he first moved in.

He found himself dreaming about her at night. In his dreams, she was close enough that he could see her freckles, and smell her breath. It smelled funny, like something old. Sometimes she would even smile.

He hadn’t always been such a loner. He too, had tried the factory life, first for a manufacturer of milk jugs and then for a tech company. He grew listless and bored, and had enough near misses with large machinery that he was let go. With a sigh, he moved to the empty country, finding an abandoned trailer on a field to call home.

The cowgirl usually walked past around dusk. There was something about the way she looked, like a hungry child, that made him feel protective and tentative at the same time. She always went the same direction, and always looked at him, brief and hard, before leaving.

He started to worry when he hadn’t seen her in a week. He wondered if she had met someone that actually spoke to her. Maybe she even found a horse. Did she have a home, or a family? What did her voice sound like?

He awoke late one night to hear the click-clack of her boots. As if in a dream, he walked through the dark trailer and stepped outside into the moonlight, knowing she would be there. She stared at him with her usual look. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

***

Julia Himmelstein lives in Portland, Oregon, where she teaches, smiles, listens, and wonders. She delights in hugs from friends, children’s smiles, and fresh baked cookies (or any food, really).

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Blackbird Wine, fiction, free, Julia Himmelstein, Mini Sledgehammer, Portland, prizes, writing contest | Leave a comment »

Mini Sledgehammer March 2015

Posted on March 13, 2015 by writer

Congratulations to Denise Coderre, whose story earned her a free book and bottle of wine!

***

Character: The person next to you
Action: Hail Mary
Setting: Somewhere in cyberspace
Prop: Mask

***

Nature Trip

by Denise Coderre

“Hey man, where are we?”

“I don’t know about you, but I think I’m somewhere in cyberspace. How big a dose did you say this was?”

“I didn’t, and I’m gonna keep it that way. You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah, thanks. I’m glad we’re here together. It’s a real chance to get to know you on a different level – without the masks we sometimes wear. I’ve known you all your life, mi hijo, but really, how well do we know each other?”

“I know what you mean. All my life, I’m the person next to you, living, playing and eating with you, sometimes crying with you, laughing with you…I think I know you pretty well. But who knows? How about you tell me about yourself? I’ll see if you get it right.”

“Hah! What is this? I don’t see any confessional boxes around, even if I were Catholic.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not as if I’m going to assign you any Hail Marys – even if I were a priest.

“This is supposed to be a beautiful experience. I think the best way we get to know each other, or rather, keep knowing each other, is just to be ourselves. Completely in the moment. There aren’t any roles we need to play. The roles are all in the past. Now, we’re just two people.”

“Yes, two peoples. And lots of bugs! Man, cyber bugs are huge! What if they eat us, and no one finds us for two years, and then we’re just a pile of bones?”

“Hello…take off the mask. You’re using bugs as an excuse to not talk about what’s important.”

“But this is me. I’m not a great philosopher. I’m just a weirdo who enjoys the minutiae, the bugs, the dirt. Look at the dirt! It’s red. Did I ever tell you about the science teacher who told me about the meaning of red dirt? It means were here. We got to where we’re going. We’ve arrived!”

“And there’s no place else I’d rather be than right here next to you. I sure do love you, whoever you are. I may not know you, but I know I love you. Thanks for being here with me.”

“Thanks for asking me. I love you too, more than you’ll ever know.”

***

Denise Coderre, originally from California, is a born-again Oregonian since 1990. She is an attorney specializing in retirement plans, insurance and related tax laws. In her spare time, she enjoys playing fierce Scrabble competitions against her fiancé, quiet evenings watching Dr. John McWhorter lectures on DVD, and studying foreign languages to mingle with locals around the world. She cherishes her good fortune to experience first-hand the enduring, ever-evolving mother-son bond.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Blackbird Wine, cyberspace, Denise Coderre, short story, Sledgehammer, writing contest | Leave a comment »

Mini Sledgehammer February 2015

Posted on February 17, 2015 by writer

Another great turnout! Thanks for the support, 2015 writers!

***

Character: The least respected person
Action: Acting
Setting: The farm
Prop: Chandelier

***

The Old Chandelier

by Alyssa Shelton

I

Some of his first memories were just twinklings; iridescent, tiny movements of light dancing off of and with one another to some music that couldn’t actually be heard.

He often wondered if his mother had left the bassinet in the foyer with the fore thinking that he would be entertained by the subtle moving shadows cast on the wall by the chandelier in the entryway of their rundown old house.

More likely, however, was that she simply set him down as quickly as she could after returning home from whatever monotonous chore or errand she’d just stumbled through.

He also wondered if those bits of light had played any role in his growing desire to become the world’s greatest actor.

He could see it all so clearly: the common farm boy turned movie star! How he would wow and dazzle, shock and surprise on the golden screen. Finally, the other boys would envy him and wish they had been kinder all those years in school. “Look at him now!” they would say as he moved weightlessly across the stages of Hollywood and Broadway. The girls would regret mocking him and sending him those humiliating fake love letters, not that he had wanted them anyway…

“Eugene! Get your sorry ass downstairs and get to herding, sonofa…”

He was ripped from yet another daydream, forced back to the pathetic reality of life on a sheep farm. While he craved glamour, production, and scripts he was drowning in wool, shit, and dust.

He made his way toward the dilapidated staircase, running his hands along the cracked and fading wallpaper with fat baby angels sitting atop yellowed clouds. His mother called them cherubs, and his father asked her why the hell she couldn’t just call them what they were: fat baby angels.

As he began to descend down the steps, he paused midway to admire the one remnant of a once impressive and sprawling plantation; his great grandfather’s chandelier. Eugene was always taken by its out of place elegance, and his mind began to wander again as it was wont to do…

“Why don’t you just take your drunk ass out of this here house and let us be!”

Slap!

The memories always ended with that terrible sound that they’d all grown so accustomed to.

“Damnit Eugene, quit starin’ at that damned light and get outside!” He quickly ran down the stairs and out to the pasture.

II

Once his work was done, he retreated to the old barn. Here he could be himself: the famed Gene! The most highly sought after actor in the whole country. And from such humble beginnings!

Not long now and his neighbor and friend, Johnny, would join him in the barn. Together they would continue writing and rehearsing their next play, The Farmer’s Wife, the coming-of-age tale of a misunderstood gal on her way to Hollywood. They could both identify.

Johnny came and they wrote, laughed, argued and fucked. They just got to thinking it might be time to call it a night when the barn door slammed open and Eugene’s father burst inside, looking horrified but not surprised.

The next sequence of events would remain a blur to all who tried to recall it. Johnny took off out the back of the barn naked.

Boom. Boom. Two shotgun shots that hit nothing but the balmy summer air. In the meantime, Eugene’s father had caught him by the back of the neck and began to drag him toward the house.

Nearly at the doorstep, Eugene broke free by throwing a wild punch in his father’s face. He made it just into the foyer as another boom! canceled out all other sounds.

As he crumpled to the floor amidst his mother’s and sister’s screams, his mind wandered back to those early twinkling memories. As the blood left his body and his breathing slowed, he once again watched the lights dance along the ceiling and the walls.

***

Alyssa Shelton co-owns a branding and web design agency called Roger That in Portland, OR. When she’s not copywriting for her clients you can find her attempting recipes that never turn out quite right.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Alyssa Shelton, Blackbird Wine, prizes, Sledgehammer, writing contest | Leave a comment »

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The Old Chandelier

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