Sledgehammer Writing Contest

OBA Special Mini Sledgehammer

Posted on March 19, 2012 by writer

Join us Saturday, April 21 for a FREE Mini Sledgehammer 36-Minute Writing Contest in celebration of the Oregon Book Awards!

The details:
OBA Mini Sledgehammer
Saturday, April 21
10 a.m.–1 p.m.

Literary Arts
925 SW Washington St., Portland
The event is free but limited to 15 participants.

Prize: OBA Complete Set!

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Ali McCart, free, Literary Arts, Mini Sledgehammer, Oregon Book Awards, Portland, prizes, writing contest | Leave a comment »

Mini Sledgehammer March 2012: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

Posted on March 16, 2012 by writer

The wine shop was packed this month! We had eleven writers, all competing for some great prizes. Kathleen Valle shocked the crowd with the following piece and, not coincidentally, was crowned champion.

***

Prompts:
Character: The bearer of bad news
Action: Selling something
Setting: Neither here nor there
Prop: Boots

***

Women’s Health: Neither Here Nor There

by Kathleen Valle

I walked through the café door and the screen door slammed behind me, but customers were not alarmed.

This town was in the middle of neither here nor there, meaning that in any which direction you choose to set off in from this café—there would be no significant destination to reach. They might-as-well have a sign out front showing each direction:

“North 553 miles to Neither”

“West 4,492 miles to Here”

“East 996 miles to Land of Nor”

“South 130 miles to There”

And at each of these places is a dusty old café with people like this—withdrawn and unalarmed not only by the screen door, but also unresponsive to my boots walking their badass selves down the room. Passed the counter, and passed the booths of people that looked like they should be sitting in front of a gambling machine rather than across from another person.

I walk towards the back of the room where I see Rodney with his headphones on. He’s unable to hear the sound of my boots. I personally don’t know how I could live without the sound of these boots. They’re the sound track to my life. Some women like bangles, some men like keys on their belt loop; I like the sound of my boots. But, that’s neither here nor there in this town where people clearly have had too many years of doctor prescribed meds.

Rodney, now he’s a character who always has the sound track of his life playing. His hands are always moving to jazz beats when his headphones are on. Rodney’s always listens to jazz. He sees me approaching, removes his headphones, and sits up all proper-like as if he’s been caught off guard or if he’s the bearer of bad news.

I sit across from him. His pigmented eyes are more clouded over than I recall. There is an orbiting to his eyes—like jazz records spinning…moving tracks as he scans my presence. It’s been a while. His black hands are still now and I see the aging spots on them. The kind that look like moles or freckles, but aren’t—it’s just a by-product of being old.

“Well,” he said, “Welcome home.”

“Thanks, Rodney. It was 4,492 miles from “Here” to get here.”

“Is that right?” Rodney says shifting a bit in his seat and looking away from my gaze. He eventually returns his gaze with purpose and asks, “So do you want the good news first or the bad news first?”

I laugh so loud that people actually turn to look.

“Is this some kind of fucking joke? What kind of question is that?”

“I know it’s a hard decision. Now, which is it going to be” Rodney says hoping to proceed.

I think on it for a bit. Long enough to order coffee—black.

“Bad news first,” I say grasping tight onto the mug.

“She’s pregnant,” Rodney says.

“Okay, and the good news?” I ask.

“She’s pregnant,” he says.

“Well, there’s no good news and there’s no bad news, its just news Rodney. This is the land of neither here nor there, remember?”

The screen door slams. In comes the “Prescription Sales Team” ready for their afternoon pitch. A doctor in a lab coat tells how these meds will help this, that, and the other. The doctor’s assistant, like an announcer at a horse race, rattles off as quickly as possible the many side effects. The people in the café instantly take out their pocket books out to pay for medications.

The exchanges are going on and I ask Rodney if the abortion pill has made it’s way here yet.

“Oh, that? Man where you’ve been. You been gone a long time ain’t you?” Rodney laughs. “Didn’t you hear that they give those out free now? These here doctors don’t even sell those. Can’t even find ‘em on the black market no more.”

“What do you mean, free?” I ask.

“Well, they’s made up them minds to not give no more health care to the womens. So, instead, they give out the abortion pill. It’s cheaper than takin’ care of the womens they say.”

“So, she has a pill then already, if she wants?” I inquire.

“Yes, she do” Rodney said.

***

Kathleen Culla Valle has lived in six different states and is calling Portland, Oregon home for now. She is a Writing Facilitator with Write Around Portland, because she loves writing. Kathleen has been journaling and penning stories ever since she can remember, but has never actively sought publication. She has an MA in English Education from Brooklyn College and is currently substitute teaching.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Blackbird Wine, free, Kathleen Valle, Mini Sledgehammer, Portland, prizes, writing contest | 1 Comment »

Mini Sledgehammer March 2012: St. Johns Booksellers

Posted on March 16, 2012 by writer

We had two newcomers at this month’s Mini Sledgehammer in St. Johns, and they really made the judge work hard! Our winner, Elisabeth Flaum, was one of them, but it’s wasn’t just beginner’s luck. Her story was great.

***

Prompts:
Character: Elvis
Action: Trouble fixing a bride
Setting: Arbor Day
Prop: Garlic

***

Untitled

by Elisabeth Flaum

I walked through the park in the spring sun. I hadn’t known there would be an event here, I just stumbled upon some kind of celebration. Earth Day or something. Arbor Day. Children selling seedlings, booths of people selling plants or landscape services or for some reason, yoga. I wandered among the noise, my thoughts drifting.

At the far end I drifted to a stop in front of an ornate display. A colorful banner read ‘Save the Presley Foot Bridge.’ An Elvis impersonator finished setting up his boom box and began belting out tunes. A whole tribe of people stood behind the tables, handing out pamphlets and hauling in any handy passer-by. It wasn’t long before one of them spotted me. I deftly made my escape as she approached.

Or so I thought. I hadn’t gone twenty yards when a flock of children engulfed me, chirping. One of them pressed a flyer into my hand as they dispersed. ‘Save the Presley Foot Bridge.’ Ten yards further along, I noticed a table of young people selling plants bore the same banner. And the t-shirts on the volunteers. ‘Save the Presley Foot Bridge.’

My curiosity piqued, I returned to the display at the far end, where I was quickly engulfed by the tribe.

“All right, you’ve got me. What’s the Presley Foot Bridge?”

A young woman with warm dark eyes took me by the hand. “Come and see.”

Beyond the hubbub of the festival, beyond the soaring flocks of children, beyond the reach of the Elvis music, she led me into the trees. A tiny wood beyond the park, rich with birdsong and the rustle of wind in the leaves, the scent of wild garlic rising as we crushed the plants underfoot. The girl clutches my hand, her fingers soft and delicate in mine, and pulls me to a stop at the edge of a clearing.

“Do you see it?”

I peer out from under the trees, blinking in the sunlight. Tall grass waves in the breeze, fluffy clouds scud across the vivid blue sky. I see nothing resembling a bridge. I start to turn, to ask this girl what she means by this, when from the corner of my eye I catch a glimmer of… something. I turn again; with my head at just the right angle I can see it. A shimmer in the air, like heat rising from the road, but with a suggestion of color, like the faintest of rainbows. I turn to my guide, incredulous.

“You can see it.”

“I can see something. I think.”

“Not everyone can.”

“Tell me about it.”

“This land belonged to a family called Presley. No relation to Elvis, that’s just a bit of fun for the campaign. But they left the land in trust. They created this place as a passageway between this world and the next. But it was never finished.”

“Wait a minute. Between this world…”

She nodded. “And the next, yes. In the Presley family, knowledge could be passed down directly from preceding generations. They wanted to share that ability with others. But the last Presley crossed before the bridge could be completed. There’s no one left on this side to finish the job. Until… until you.”

“Me? Wait a minute. You’re talking about communicating with the dead. A bridge to another world. That’s impossible.”

Her dark eyes gazed into mine, all-seeing.

“It’s not. You know.”

As she said it I knew she was right.

“It only takes that special kind of trust.”

Suddenly it wasn’t a young girl’s voice I was hearing. It was the voice of my own great-grandfather, a man who was ancient the day I met him and who never grew less so. A man who appeared to me still in my dreams, as he had in my childhood, whenever I needed a guiding hand. He was there with me in the clearing in the woods, there with me and this girl I’d never seen before.

I looked into those dark eyes and saw myself. I reached out and took her hand. Together we stepped out into the sunlight, our feet climbing an invisible rise, riding on that special kind of trust. I heard the music, smelled the wild garlic again as we stepped into another world.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Elisabeth Flaum, free, Mini Sledgehammer, Portland, St.-Johns-Booksellers, writing contest | 1 Comment »

Mini Sledgehammer February 2012: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

Posted on February 16, 2012 by writer

Some people theorized that a Valentine’s Day Mini Sledgehammer would result in a serious lack of contestants, but lo, the crowd came out! Thanks to everyone who spent their V-Day with us.

Congratulations to Jarrod Schuster, whose disturbingly delicious story claimed first place.

***

Prompts:
Character: A twenty-something dog walker
Action:
Setting: An abandoned hotel on Valentine’s Day
Prop: Wrinkle cream

***

Untitled

by Jarrod Schuster

The Long Goodbye had seen better days. Once the pride of honeymooning couples and Valentine’s sweethearts, today it was a derelict monument to art-deco excess, and decay.

Chas had been trying to get Henri’s dog to commit suicide there for two whole weeks.

Henri, at home grading papers for her “day job” (as she so often felt the need to remind Chas of) had long relegated to him the task of taking Grief for her nightly constitutional. A more aptly named creature Chas could not imagine. Henri claimed she was named for how she acquired her – an impulse purchase after the ‘tragic’ death of her sister. Chas explained to anyone out of Henri’s earshot how she had been named for the misery her presence inflicted.

Grief was some kind of purebred freak of genetic casualty; an inbred, wheezing, bow-legged, smoosh-sinused terror of patchy fur and wrinkled flesh, whose appearance was long announced by nasal snufflings and whine riddled hacking coughs. Every morning, Grief was subjected to a series of vitamins, pills, drops and inspections that would make the most cancer ridden of geriatrics feel relieved at their own plight. And yet, in spite of the genetic minefield the dog straddled, every day Chas awoke to it’s wheezing hiccoughing need for ablutions.

The Long Goodbye had seemed like the perfect place to finally rid himself of the dog. A warren of exposed, still sparking wires, tetanus laced bed springs, disease breeding leaky pipes and a pool long reclaimed by the wet wild. Henri would never forgive him for outright “losing” the dog, but as Grief was born of accident, her demise by such would seem poetic to Henri’s literary attuned mind. “God bless English majors,” Chas had initially thought. Now his musings revolved around the capricious cruelty of heavenly beings who plagued him with the thrice-damned burden of ‘designer’ dogs.

Chas stumbled over the half-sealed front doors, hopelessly released Grief as he had a hundred times before, and prayed to half-believed in deities that tonight the damned dog would finally meet its end. Grief took off, as she always did, investigating the depths of the darkened lobby with a nose that Chas absolutely knew, could-not-possibly, smell any more than he could.

“I can help your dog, mister.”

Chas fell on his own ass in shock, trying to turn the panicked yip he had made in fear into a rough cough. A man in the shabbily mismatched layers of professional street people stepped into the partial light of distant street lamps, the miraculous buzz and stutter of the still functional ‘Hotel’ sign above the door lintel.

“Yore dog. I can help ‘er.” he said again, with the earnest sincerity of the evangelical. Or the insane.

“Ex-hrmm-excuse me?” managed Chas, back-peddaling on his bottom away from the ancient stranger.

“I can help yer dog,” stated the derelict, “With this!” He flourished a half-used, generic white tube. In black marker, long faded, someone had scribbled ‘Wrinkel Creem’.

Chas just stared at the man.

Taking the silence as assent, the stranger confidently strode over to Grief, scooped her up in one begloved hand. He unscrewed the cap of the ‘Wrinkel Creem’ with his stained teeth, liberally squirted out a line of dirty yellow gelatin onto the dog’s back. Pocketing the still uncapped tube, the vagrant began to vigorously scrub the cream into the dog.

Like a child scrubbing at an unworthy drawing with a fat pink eraser – the dog began to vanish. Tufts of fur, curls of flesh pattered to the floor as the dog, with only a slight snuffle, disappeared.

“T’ain’t right to do that to no beast,” said the derelict, “What you need is a proper mutt.”

As the man shuffled into the empty hotel’s depths, Chas realized his dream had come true.

He was so screwed.

***

The author of this work, like any good author, is entirely implied. Feel free to grace him, her or it with whatever characteristics, attributes, or opinions you may wish. Just do not be boring with your details. Everyone abhors a bore.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Blackbird Wine, free, Indigo Editing, Jarrod Schuster, Mini Sledgehammer, prizes, Valentine's Day, writing contest | Leave a comment »

Mini Sledgehammer February 2012: St. Johns Booksellers

Posted on February 15, 2012 by writer

Although the competition was not fierce this month at the St. Johns Mini Sledgehammer, the winning story was! Director Ali McCart played. Even if she had been eligible to win, she wouldn’t have–Judge and St. Johns Booksellers Owner Nena Rawdah vetoed Ali’s story for doing harm to a book in it. Well, we’re all on the books’ side aren’t we?

Congratulations to Jack Mahaffy for taking home prizes on his first visit to the contest. The story was definitely a winner, no matter how many writers competed.

***

Prompts:
Character: Miser
Action: Stumbling up some stairs
Prop: A big, heave, ornate book
Phrase: “Haters can pound sand!”

***

Dog Arms

by Jack Mahaffy

There was a man who had dogs for arms. There was a dog coming out of his left shoulder, and one from his right. They were both hounds: blood, wolf. Wolf was his right arm. This is how he was born.

It was difficult for the man to do some things, but others came easy. He could hold onto something for a long time. He could never let go of something. The man was rarely cold. As a boy, he unwrapped box after box of vests.

It was hard for the man growing up. But not for the reasons you would think. Here’s why. Here’s some of the reasons. Please sit. Please stay. Do those two things for a while and quietly no as not to wake the dogs.

There is a whimper, a kind of whimper. Here’s what I want you to understand: for must people it is on the inside only. Not for the man. This is a type of whimper that you have probably long since learned by now to keep coiled. But the man’s arms bristle. The long lips at the end of each mouth split where your wrist is. Look down. Lay down. Look down to where your hands are. He has wet teeth for where your fingers are.

The man loved libraries. Have I mentioned that? I’m sorry. Would you like something to drink? Some tea? Don’t mind Blood if she yips—she’s just dreaming.

When he was a boy the man would go to the library after school. The town had two, even though one would have done just fine. It was a small town. The man would go to the first one, the old one, to that one only.

There was trouble in grade school once, in the library once, when he was a boy and the dogs were just pups. The library was old and didn’t hide it. There were marble stairs with the sound always and unexpected of different types of heels stumbling up the stairs. There were terminals, sure, and movies in all the modern formats, but the library kept its relics, showcased its older eras. It’s okay to be proud of what you are.

The man would go there. He would go into the room with the relics. Have you seen it? It’s flanked by two built-in pillars with inscribed pediments, there’s a maroon rope strung across the entry with a sign hung where the sag of it was at its deepest. It’s a nice place. Tea by itself is suitable, I hope? I have a few cookies, to be honest—hermit cookies—but they were baked for me after my son’s funeral. They’re delicious and I don’t have the recipe. Forgive me if I’m a miser about such things.

So. The library. The room. The boy would crawl under the rope. There was a book there he loved. A big and heavy and ornate book. It could stand his hands. He could hold onto it.

His arms would scamper under the rope. What happened once, when they were pups, was that Blood and Wolf both skittered, growled, pissed on the marble. A boy from school saw him—an older boy. He laughed and pointed at the piss dripping from where your armpits are.

The boys arms barked. Lunged. The older boy cried out. The boy who would become the man smiled or grunted or was ashamed, probably. He may have thought I’m sorry or come back or haters can pound sand.

Listen. Thanks for coming. For staying. Will you fetch the kettle for me? It aches to get up anymore these days.

***

Jack Mahaffy, who lives in Oregon, has a wife and a child and dogs.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Leave a comment »

« Previous Page — Next Page »

Sledgehammer Writing Contest

Visit Indigo

Join Our Networks

Photo Gallery