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The Great BOLD Write-Off: May 2026

Posted on May 25, 2026 by writer

Burns

by David Melody

He picked up the dog-eared paperback after the numbers caught his eye. Marnie was the first thing that came to mind. One. Nine. Eight. Four. That was a code word they’d started with the day after New Year’s 1984, day one, amidst the three empty champagne bottles, and spewed pink frosting from what was left of his birthday cake. Marnie, Marnie, Marnie, that was the plan, read the book together now that the big year had finally arrived.

“Two dollars and fifty cents, but I’ll give it to you for half since the back cover’s missing.“ 

Missing just like Marnie, Derek thought, six months into the year and nothing to show for it but a bunch of empty hangers where she’d first had her clothes. Nothing more sobering than a rack of wire hangers that used to hold so much promise. He’d located her new number from a mutual friend, just in time to find out she’d blocked him. The only option now was driving far out past Burns, where she’d taken their RV.

“Far out, man,” the cashier yelled as Derek left the store, “Love that 84 stuff.” Yeah, far out man, far fucking out yourself, said Derek, loudly inside himself. Maybe there’d be a clue in the novel. Books could be like that. Had been like that before for him. Like the time he’d landed in Tulsa and on a whim bought a copy of “Coffee Tea or Me”, which wasn’t much about flying but inspired him enough to complete his hoppy flying license, which now offered a freight train of possibilities. For sure, and like the shop owner had said, far out man. He’d be the Far Out Man, come to Marnie, car repossessed be damned. His pilot’s license was still good, his eyesight less so, but even with all the old traffic controllers fired, or furloughed, he could easily find his way down the runway, newbies to the side, and back into Marnie’s arms.

Hell, he could even bring her the book, start the year all over again, but with a happier ending this time, just like in the book he thought. Well, he’d find out reading next to her on the couch in the RV, book had to have a happy ending to have been around this long.

When Derek turned down the rutted dirt road he was starting to have a few doubts about his 1984 make up and make out plans. He recognized Marnie’s car but not the three pit bulls in separate cages near a shed. He loved dogs but preferred the poodle type.

Just then the aluminum screen door of the RV flew open, and a rather large, bearded man filled the entire frame.

“You. Derek?” he asked, politely, in a voice almost too low to hear. A voice purring with delight.

“How’d you…” Derek started, then stopped. He didn’t want to ruin his luck, and the good luck of 1984.

——————————————————————————————————————————-

Copyright 2026 by David Melody

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The Great BOLD Write-Off: April 2026

Posted on April 25, 2026 by writer

We’re getting back in the swing of posting these stories after the contest went on hiatus for several years, so I’m sorry we missed including the prompts this time. Enjoy the story, though!

***

Whispers: 2am Radio Broadcast

By Zachariah O’Keeffe / Roll for Writing

The radio crackles through the dead air as you drive through the night, the windows are down. Even with the speed you are driving, the air is humid and heavy. Sliding in over the dead static, a voice comes over the radio: “Hello, caller, you’re on the air…”

“I was never a city boy, and certainly never really thought about moving west. No sir, I was quite happy with my life in Kansas City. But, when one works for the government, one goes where they are told. I thought getting hired by the IRS as a tax auditor was my ticket to a comfortable life, at least compared to where and how I had grew up, but they told me where they had an opening; a dirty city on the coast, some place called Port Astor. I had never heard of it.”

“It wasn’t a permanent thing, they reassured me, and they’d try to send me somewhere closer to home, but… they needed me to check on something. They had a pharmaceutical company, MalaMedi, that had submitted the exact same tax information for five years in a row. Normally, there’s at least a little deviation, and after a random review, it got flagged. They sent a local gal to do an audit, but they just stopped hearing from her. So they decided to send another. Me.”

“When I landed at the airport, and took my rental into the city, I was aghast. This place had never been invaded or bombed, but if you told me it had, I would believe you. There was a hungry dread that was in the air, and how the sickly light spindled through the clouds. I went straight to the office, my plan was to try and get this long process done as fast as possible. I felt stupid now having seen the city for the bravado I gave to my superiors; I believe the phrase ‘no more Mr. Nice Guy’ was said by one foolish me.”

“Walking into the sterile corporate lobby was jarring, and the air was different– it felt… dead. I introduced myself, and was told to wait, so wait I did. At some point, I heard the elevator chime, and a blonde woman stepped out like the lobby floor was a stage, light shining down on her, and her alone.”

“We exchanged the expected formalities, and went to an equally plastic-feeling conference room where… everything was laid out perfectly. Not like perfect– perfect. For every question I could have had, a pristine form with an answer, and a wide, perfect smile that never faded.”

“I was there only an afternoon, which was exemplary time for a full audit, but an afternoon too long. We never did find out what happened to the prior auditor, but I also never asked.”

As the callers voice fades into the static, you only hear one other thing; a voice from earlier; “Thank you, caller…”

***

Zachariah is a writer from the Pacific Northwest who enjoys telling stories with his friends, and thinking about how things work. When not trading his time for money, he can be found at various cafes around town. Proud member of the National Writers Union & the Freelance Solidarity Project. Also a member of the Horror Writers Association. The body of his work can be found at https://makeawritingcheck.blogspot.com/.

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The Great BOLD Write-Off: January 2026

Posted on January 25, 2026 by writer

January 2026 prompts:

Character: Artist

Action: Lifting up

Setting: All alone

Prop: Pear

(Untitled)

by Jasmine Sears

Willow’s entire life hinged on this exhibition.

Willow called herself a sculptor, but nearly a decade after graduating with her MFA, she was staring down middle age with only a handful of offbeat gallery appearances to her name. The consignment store she cashiered at hadn’t given her a raise in three years, and Willow was about to be priced out of her cramped studio apartment.

The invitation to tomorrow’s grand opening of a ritzy new gallery had come as a total shock. One of Willow’s former — and far more successful — classmates had found herself double-booked and pulled some strings to give her spot to Willow. Sure, the pedestal was tucked into the back corner of the last room in the gallery — but it was hers.

A breathless Willow rushed through the back entrance of the building, hoping she wasn’t too late. Setup officially ended at 9pm, and the bus had dropped her off at 8:57. A maintenance man scowled at her as she stepped into the storage room.

“Yer the last one? With the big crate?”

Willow nodded.

The man glared for a beat too long. “I’ll unbox it for you, but I’m off the clock after that.”

Willow’s heart sank as she looked at her masterpiece sitting on the floor, four feet and an impossible force away from its spot on her pedestal. The blown-glass Earth in the shape of a pear was far too heavy for her to lift by herself, but the gallery was deserted.

She had to try.

Bending, crouching, grunting, Willow tried to remember her weights class advice. Lift with your legs? Arms straight?

The crash was inevitable.

The next day, Willow’s exhibit was the talk of the event: glittering shards of blue-green glass in the outline of a pear from pedestal to corner.

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Mini Sledgehammer April 2019

Posted on April 16, 2019 by writer

We love Chris Smith’s writing style and are glad to see him on the winner’s board again for the April 2019 Mini Sledgehammer Writing Contest. Congrats, Chris!

Character: A life coach
Action: Gambling
Setting: A hood ornament
Prop: A riverboat

Bottom of the RiverChris Smith

By Chris Smith

 

She looks like an angel released from hell. A winged beast bursting through the blood towards my hands as I dangle her over the edge. I want to keep her as a token, but it’s risky to keep evidence on you.

It’s been days and I’ve traveled for miles on foot, by car, and now on this boat down the Mississippi. I’m hundreds of miles away, but the literal blood still stained to my hands brings me back there. I daggle her chrome body over the edge. She hangs there by the chain coming from her neck. But there’ll be a rope around my neck too if I don’t let go. She needs to sleep in the depths of the swamp so I can be free. But I feel for her.

Strange how one…accident can chain you down forever. How one person pushing you so hard to exploit your best, just breaks you. A fracture that can’t be repaired, just replaced while the old one is discarded. I stare at her. She stares back at me smiling. She’s shiny like the trophy she is to me. A cold reminder of what I did for a little bit of freedom. Finally, taking my life back into my own hands by taking his. But she must drown.

She looks like she is soaring as I swing her from my fingers over the murky slime below. I love her for that! One last act of absolute freedom, even for a moment, before she plunges below holding to my hand.

© 2019 Christopher Smith

I’m an aspiring filmmaker, photographer and writer from South Florida. I enjoy crafting stories about the weird yet interesting mundane parts of life, whether it is visually or on the page. When not writing, I can be found taking photos around town or binging on TV show and movies.

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Mini Sledgehammer February 2019

Posted on February 14, 2019 by writer

The week of roses and chocolates brought out some great stories about oyster farmers and horse heads. Thanks to everyone who came out for the contest this week! And congratulations to Christopher Smith for racking up another win!

Prompts:
Character: An oyster farmer
Action: Going out on a limb
Setting: An igloo
Prop: A horse head

Winter SongChris Smith

By Chris Smith

The breeze is hard on my face as I leave the comfort of my new, icy “igloo” fortress to venture out for some supplies. Ice and snow can keep people warm. Brick and mortar can keep people warm. But ice, snow, brick, and mortar seem to keep people cold. Especially with a broken radiator, our only source of heat…besides each other. But there is only so much cuddling I can take. So, of course, my dear love has to get sick forcing me to venture out into the cold.

My toes are cold. My toes are cold and wet. My toes are cold, wet, wrapped in two layers of socks, and thick rubber boots. It feels like I’ve been walking for days, but it has only been…a few minutes! It’s the boots, we have a complicated relationship. Although they, mostly, keep my feet warm and dry, they are not my aesthetic and hurt my feet. I look like an oyster farmer. So, I thought I might as well lean into it with overalls, an oversized sweater, an oversized raincoat, and as much of a beard I can grow in twenty minutes.

It’s been about fifteen maybe twenty days? Hours? Minutes? It’s been fifteen minutes since I was last home and I’m beginning to forget what home is like; what any amount of warmth feels like. I remember his face though. If I die out here, I want to remember that face. The face of the guy that sent me out on a limb to get medicine because he likes to sleep with the fan on. Maybe the anger will keep me warm longer? That would be helpful.

The return trip looks and feels no better. I did buy a horse head mask thinking I could prank him with it or something, but now it just seems like a dumb idea to me. The cold is taking up any brainpower I have to think things through. Maybe I can answer the door with it on, that’ll be funny, right? Or I could just leave it on the sidewalk under the snow. A nice surprise for when the snow melts. Now I wish I had gotten the red cough syrup.

© 2019 Christopher Smith

Christopher Smith is an aspiring filmmaker, photographer and writer from South Florida. He enjoys crafting stories about the weird yet interesting mundane parts of life, whether it is visually or on the page. When not writing, he can be found taking photos around town or binging on TV show and movies.

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