free | Sledgehammer Writing Contest

Mini Sledgehammer: St. Johns Booksellers Birthday Edition

Posted on June 27, 2011 by writer

Before her store celebrated its birthday this past Saturday, June 25, Néna Rawdah messaged us to ask if we could work with her to host a Mini Sledgehammer as part of the celebration: “If you’re up for it, that would just round out the day for me.” How could we turn down something like that? Not that we’d want to anyway–we heart this Portland bookstore and appreciate the many ways it supports us, and all of its neighbors.

What a great turnout! Writers and friends of writers both. We judges had to debate the many merits of the four submitted stories, which ranged drastically in tone and topic. In the end, though, we were unanimous: congratulations, Brynn Tran!

Thanks so much to everyone for coming out. Those who did also learned that that evening launched our second permanent Mini Sledgehammer series. Now join us every second Thursday at 7 p.m. at St. Johns Booksellers!

***

Prompts:
Character: A cute girl bass player
Action: Nibbling on a pen or pencil
Setting: Over yonder
Phrase: King me!”

***

The Professor

By Brynn Tran

She could taste the salt on her upper lip, feel it stinging her right eye. The setting sun burned orange and she glared at it as she dragged the cumbersome case up the gravel road. It was hot. Too hot for eight in the evening. To hot to drag her bass over every dusty, dry hill. Too hot to hurry. Her car thought it was too hot, too, and gave up three miles back. Now her makeup was running and her hair was plastered in golden snakes to her forehead, and all she could see was a mire of green-black retina burn. She glared at the sun, daring it to set. “Fuck you, sun,” she said.

A figure shimmered in and out of existence between heat waves over yonder, perched atop the next hill. The girl hesitated. “Hey,” she called. The figure’s head snapped to. “You have a car?” she asked, immediately regretting it. If he had a car he would be in it, anywhere but here. It was unusual, standing alone in the middle of nowhere. Then again, she was the one with a tube top and a fourth of a string quartet.

“Not anymore, miss,” the figure replied. The notebook he was holding snapped shut, and his pen played about his lips. He smiled wanly. “Are you headed over there?” he jerked his thumb over the crest of the hill and, as the girl approached him, the lights of a town winked at them both.

She felt like a triumphant checker. King me, she thought. Please.

The man laughed good-naturedly at her relieved face. His eyes crinkled up at the corners, a cool blue, like a teacher the girl had once known. He reminded her of her high school orchestra conductor and she reminded herself why she was walking. This was her dream. All she wanted was to make it. To make it big, to make it to this one gig and be golden.

“Let me carry that for you,” said the man. He reached over and took the bass from her. She suddenly felt lighter than air. Perhaps it was his cologne. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Jen,” said the girl. “You don’t have to do that, really.”

“I insist,” said the man. “What are you doing out here all by yourself?”

“I’ve got a show tonight with my band. There’s gonna be some big names there. Producers, that kinda thing.” Jen was getting ahead of him, speeding up. She figured she had about twenty minutes to make it to that great hulking blob in the distance. Since it still looked like a blob, it would likely take much longer. “So… what are you doing out here? Writing?”

“Sure,” he said. “Notes. Observations. That sort of thing.”

What could he be taking notes on? Jen wondered. There was really nothing for miles, except the town.

“I’m a scientist.” It was as though he knew her thoughts. “A professor,” he added, as an afterthought.

“Where do you teach?”

“Oh, I don’t teach anymore.”

“Why?”

Jen whirled at the sound of a heavy clatter and found herself staring down a cool blade. A knife – no, a scalpel. Her instrument rocked from side to side where it fell. It was the only sound. She didn’t scream. She didn’t even breathe. His icy fingers gripped her by the hair.

“Why?” the Professor parroted. “Because I’m starting my own project,” he said.

The obsidian scalpel flashed. She didn’t even scream.

Very carefully, the Professor lifted the latches on the case and removed the bass. He placed it on the side of the road. Then he folded up the girl, stuffed her inside, closed the lid, and continued on his way towards the lights of the town. The sun slipped below the horizon.

***

Brynn shares about herself and her story: “I just turned eighteen and graduated from Lakeridge High School in Lake Oswego, and I’ll be attending Reed College next year to study English. The Professor in this short story is actually a character I made in my creative writing class this year, who I had no intention of writing about. The ironic thing is that his last name is St. John.”

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Mini Sledgehammer: June 2011

Posted on June 16, 2011 by writer

If you’ve ever thought the judges have an easy job choosing these winning stories, you’re very wrong. Three of us debated for a very long time this month–so many of the stories were incredible! We finally decided on Amy Seaholt‘s story, and it was thrilling to watch her reaction. It was as if she’d won a game show!

Thanks so much to everyone for coming out. We hope to see you next month, and the month after, and of course at the main event in September.

***

Prompts:
Character: A water park attendant
Action: Adjusting a telescope
Setting: An eerily empty freeway
Phrase: “You’re never going to believe this.”

***

Untitled

By Amy Seaholt

Justin’s shift ended at 7 p.m., though Raging Waters stayed open until 9. His dad said it was called that because the waters were raging with bacteria. Justin always chuckled at this, not because it was funny, as his Pop thought, but because it came from a man who only cared to shower once every few days and who Justin knew didn’t properly wash his hands after using the toilet.

Justin was far too old to be attracted to any of the high school kids who would flip their ponytails or snap their gum at him in an unpracticed attempt at flirting. They seemed to think that the job held some glamour. Or maybe they were just looking for free admission to the park.

Anyone his own age thought that it was a menial position and that he was incapable of impressing any girls with it. He knew this was true, so he didn’t tell anyone he knew at the State college about it. He even took pains to wash the chlorine smell from him as completely as he could before going to classes.

When Susan, his biology lab partner during summer term, got close to him to do a fetal pig dissection, he felt sure that she wouldn’t smell the chlorine over the formaldehyde. She had a good nose.

“Do you lifeguard?” She had asked.

“Yes, part time,” he replied, not wanting to go into more detail.

Where?

He pretended not to hear, he was so focused on the pig.

“Where do you lifeguard?” she asked again.

“Oh, just a place.” He was trying to be vague.

She narrowed his eyes at him. “Why are you avoiding the question. Do you work at Raging waters or something?”

He gave a slight nod.

“I used to love that place! I went about ten times every summer as soon as my parents would let me go by myself.”

Shhh! We’re going to get behind what everyone else is doing. He said. It was the first time he really noticed her long, smooth brown hair, wide eyes, her long neck. She was cute.

“I think it’s cute.” She said. “I just work at Starbucks. Boring.”

It was the cute comment, and that he was thinking the same of her at the same time, that gave him the courage to ask her out.

“You’re never going to believe this, me being a professional water park attendant slash biologist, but I know a cool place where you can see billions of stars. You have to get out of the city, though. You want to come with me sometime?”

Her eyes crinkled up when she smiled.

So after Justin’s shift ended at 7 he took a long shower to get rid of the chlorine smell and the stray bacteria that his father would suspect was there, and he picked up Susan for the drive up 99, then 70.

They spoke about high school for a while, and he explained that he had taken Dr. Greene’s astronomy class during the previous semester and had really gotten into it. Now he liked to take time-lapse photos of the stars. He was a little worried, revealing this to her, but she listened intently and the conversation was so easy that time passed quickly. Before he knew it he was pulling over.

“You can’t stop here, it’s the middle of the highway!” She had another one of her grins that pinched the edges of her brown eyes.

“Don’t worry. Nobody comes this way this time of night.”

He got out the tripod and telescope and began to set it up. “What do you want to see first. Saturn? The Orion nebula?”

“Yes. Any of that.” She said genially.

The more time he spent with her the more relaxed he felt. It was going really well.

“Okay, he said. Come down here and take a look.” He indicated to the telescope.

She bent her head to the eyepiece. Can you see it ok? He asked. She said it was a bit blurry. As he adjusted the focus he inhaled the fragrance of her curtain of hair. His heart beat a little faster and he wondered if he should kiss her. His palms began to sweat and he could feel himself getting red.

At that moment, headlights, coming fast, swept around the bend. His nerves already on edge, he failed to warn her, verbally, to move out of the way. Instead, he yanked the telescope up and pulled her arm to direct her to the edge of the road. Except that he did it too quickly, out of order, and slammed the telescope sight into her beautiful brown eye, tumbling her to the side of the road.

She was holding her eye, lying on the side of the highway, he was hovering over her, as the intruding car came to a stop to see if all was all right.

***

Amy Seaholt is a realtor by day and a writer by night. She is learning that if you actually want to get published, you have to let people read your work. You can read a little of hers here: http://brandofcrazy.blogspot.com/. She lives in Northeast Portland with her husband and two young children.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: 36 minutes, Amy Seaholt, free, Mini Sledgehammer, prizes, publish, writing contest | 1 Comment »

Mini Sledgehammer: May 2011

Posted on May 23, 2011 by writer

Apologies for the delay in posting this month’s winner. The three judges deliberated for a long time the night of the event–at least it was a warm and sunny evening so we could do so outside!–so I guess it only makes sense that the announcement would be the long time in coming.

***
Prompts:
Character: a woman of a certain age
Action: fleeing by bicycle
Setting: between here and there
Phrase: “Don’t take this the wrong way, but . . . ”

Congratulations to Pam Russell Bejerano, who wrote the following in 36 minutes!

***

Pam Russell Bejerano

The Bicycle

Margaret stood looking at the bicycle in the shop. It was the latest invention – the front wheel large with iron spokes, a tiny seat atop made of wood, and one small wheel behind. She had seen many photographs of them, but this was her fist glimpse in person. It was magnificent.

“May I help you, Ma’am?” Margaret turned and looked at the young boy, less than half her age. “Are you looking for a gift for your husband?”

Margaret smiled. She knew women were not allowed to ride such contraptions, but she also knew that this was hogwash. Women of a certain age, in her opinion, were young enough to be able to break such asinine rules, and old enough to enjoy doing so. How little the young knew.

“No,” she said, then quickly corrected herself. “Actually, yes. I am looking for a bicycle for my husband. But truly, you cannot convince me that these contraptions are not highly dangerous.” She shifted her parasol from one shoulder to the other, getting a better look at both the boy and the bicycle.

“No, no,” he said walking to the bicycle and wheeling it towards her. “They are truly safe. Watch,” he said, stationing the bicycle by the mounting stand. He climbed up, swung his leg over the seat, and placed his feet on the pedals. “Watch,” he said, then proceeded ever so slowly to move the bicycle down the road.

She watched him go, then watched as he turned the corner ever so carefully, and rode back to her, dismounting again at the stand. He smiled at her, as if it were the grandest achievement to have ridden such a thing between here and there, when in truth, here was there. Thoughts swimming in Margaret’s mind were of a much grander sort.

“I supposed you’re going to tell me I need to purchase the contraption to mount the thing as well?” she said, goading him.

“Of course not. It is just as easy to mount freestanding. Watch.” He moved the bicycle away from the stand, kicked out a metal rod that held the bicycle upright, and proceeded to climb up the back wheel. “See, just as easy?”

“And this?” she said, pointing to the rod.

“Watch,” he said, beaming at her. As he rode away, the stand flipped itself up.

Again, he rode to the end of the dirt road and turned slowly, then made his way back. How he would dismount was the only piece of information she was lacking. She watched carefully as he slowed the bicycle, removed one hand from the handle bar and placed it on the seat between his legs, then quickly leapt back and down to the ground.

“Simple as pie. Your husband will learn in no time.”

“Indeed,” she said. “And how much does this cost?”

“Well,” he said, gently taking her arm and leading her closer to the bicycle. “This is not your average model. These spokes, see here, how they are connected at the center? That’s the latest fashion, making the model much safer. And the pedals, see how they…”

“How much, I believe, was the question.”

The young lad stopped and looked at her. “The seat, see there? It’s fine Italian leather that…”

“My boy, if I have to ask you again, you shall lose my attentions permanently.” She stared him in the eye, unmoving.

“75 pounds, 10 shillings.”

“75 pounds? And 10 shillings?” she mocked, feigning shock. “For a contraption that will make one sweat to take it simply down the road?” she said, gesturing up the short distance of road she had traveled.

“Oh, but madam, think of all the places one could go!”

“Such as?”

“Well,” he said, rubbing his chin and staring at the giant wheel. “You could ride it as far as, let’s see…”

“Yes, just as I thought. An overpriced bundle of metal to get one no where.” She shifted her parasol off her shoulder and overhead, turned on a heel, and began to walk away, smiling. She knew she had him.

“Ma’am,” he said, running around to block her path. “Please, I assure you, this bicycle s sturdy enough, fast enough, it could take you even off to the next town.”

“And where might that be?” she said, feigning ignorance. “There?” she pointed down the road she was facing that bent some 100 yards down into the overgrowth. A back road, she also knew, that led to Sussex, some 16 miles away.

“Well, of course, though one would have to be highly skilled at the thing to be able to ride down that road.”

“Oh, well, then,” she said, turning the opposite direction to the other road that headed out of town. “This way?”

“Well, this way, certainly. I’ve ridden there myself.”

“Indeed.” She looked at him with wide eyes, as if entirely impressed with his prowess. “I’ll take it. But only if you can guarantee me my husband could reach the next town by that road,” she gestured down the shorter path, “on his first attempt.”

“Ma’am, if I may,” he said, looking at her. “Please, don’t take this wrong, but riding such a machine will take some time. If your husband wishes to go over to the next town, it may take some time to accustom himself to the thing. But once he’s done that, I assure you, he can ride as far as the edge of town if he’d so like.”

Insulted as a woman, and by her age. It was amazing how well the youth managed to do that in one fell swoop. She smiled, thoroughly enjoying herself.

“If you would, please, then. I’d like to buy that one.”

The boy turned to where her extended finger indicated. “That one?” he said, the look of surprise unhidden on his face. “But Maam, that’s our delux model. It might be better if your husband learnt first on this one, then, in time, if he still likes it, he could come back and purchase this one.”

“Are you quite through?” she said simply.

“Ma’am?”

“With your juvenile preaching. Are you quite through?”

“Uh, well, uh, yes Ma’am.”

“Good, because you’re tiring me. I want that one.” Again she pointed to the larger model still in the shop.

“Right. Well, give me a minute, please, I’ll be right back.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Unfortunately for the poor lad, by the time he was right back, she had hoisted up the folds of her skirt, mounted the cycle, and disappeared around the bend. Once out of sight and out of sound, she realized she had done it – she had fled her godforsaken life forever, and had done so in the most unexpected of ways – by bicycle.

She lifted her head to the sun, flew her feet off the pedals and out in front of her, and let out the most joyous, giddy yelp of her life.

***

Pam Russell Bejerano is a writer who works as an educator in Portland, Oregon. Pam has published a poem and one previous Mini Sledgehammer story, and was invited to read a short story at the Cannon Beach Historical Society. Pam is currently working on a novel to be completed in 2011. You can read more of Pam’s writing on her blog.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: 36-minute writing contest, Blackbird Wine, Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese, Blackbird Wine Shop, free, Indigo Editing, Indigo Editing & Publications, Mini Sledgehammer, Pam Russell Bejerano, Portland, prizes, Sledgehammer, writing contest | 1 Comment »

Mini Sledgehammer: April 2011

Posted on April 12, 2011 by writer

Today’s a day to cut to the chase, so here are your prompts:

Character: Maintenance worker
Action: Getting a haircut
Setting: An RV park
Prop: A book review

The judges debated for quite a while on the winner this month, and they finally settled on Wendy Grant’s story, “Paul Bunyan’s Leather Jacket.” Congratulations, Wendy!

***

Paul Bunyan’s Leather Jacket

by Wendy Grant

MTV used to have a show called “Road Rules.” A handful of twenty-somethings traveled around in an RV, stopping occasionally to see a historic site, do something ridiculous like bungee jump from a hot-air balloon, make out with the local townsfolk, call their semi-significant others back home to cry and apologize for said dirty deed, and stab one another in the back. I think they won a Kia and five grand if they survived the odyssey. All of the Road Rulers, as they were called, were young, fit, and impossibly good-looking. It really irritated my buddy Martin.

Martin thought that a bunch of us should travel around in an RV, too—we the not young, the never fit, the potentially fairly good-looking-after-six-martinis. We could go to historic sites, contribute to the community in some way that didn’t involve making out with the local townsfolk, and film it all.

“Film it for what? For who?” asked our friend Jenn.

“The History Channel?” I cracked.

“For fun,” said Martin.

“Instead of ‘Road Rules,’ we can call it ‘Old Fools,’” Jenn said.

Given that we are twice as old as twenty-somethings, we couldn’t just take off for three months like those Road Rulers. We settled on three days in an RV that Martin nicknamed Petunia, and we set off for the Paul Bunyan RV Park. Despite Petunia’s girth, we made it to the RV Park without incident in just under 18 hours.

I was antsy after being the RV for so long—and, frankly, I was probably feeling a bit cocky after decimating Jenn in Uno, 27 games straight. I leaped out of the RV, and I could see it: the enormous statue of Paul Bunyan. Anti-flannel graffiti artists had spray-painted his red and black shirt into a black leather jacket. Our community task would be to remove the graffiti and restore Paul Bunyan’s faux flannel. We’d start tomorrow.

“If I’m going to be on camera, I need a haircut,” Martin said. He barely has any hair, but he’s fastidious about what little he does have.

“That’ll take three minutes,” said Jenn. “Then what are we going to do?”

Three minutes later, Jenn, Martin, Very Quiet Victor, and I set off in search of liquid refreshment. We stopped when we saw the first neon beer sign. The locals sized us up, decided we were harmless, and actively ignored us. The bartender told us it was Ladies’ Night—two-for-one apple martinis—and we started a tab. For the purposes of discounted alcohol, Martin and Very Quiet Victor became honorary ladies.

Three rounds later, which was six drinks each later, thanks to the twofers, we were deeply, deeply drunk.

“Victooorrrrr,” I slurred, “why are you so Very Quiet?”

“I’m a maintenance worker. The equipment never talks to me. I don’t talk to it.”

“Ohhh. Let’s make out.”

Jenn began filming us immediately and commented, “If you had big fake boobs, we could probably sell this show to Bravo.”

Victor and I ignored her, and, according to video evidence, I lost my top.

Martin stared sadly at his drink. “I think I’m going to be too hung over to do charitable service tomorrow.”

Jenn swung the camera his way. “I read a review about that book, Volunteering in the New Millennium. It said that the desire to volunteer is more important than actual action.”

“Really?”

“No. But this was a good idea.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Let’s make out.”

***

Wendy M. Grant is a writer and editor. She’s written innumerable advertisements, newsletters, and brochures, and she co-authored a book on the history of Naval Air Station Miramar. When she’s not writing and editing for the clients of her company, W-inkling, she works on her screenplay, which she plans to sell this year.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Blackbird Wine, free, Indigo Editing, MTV, Paul Bunyan, prizes, Road Rules, Wendy Grant, writing contest | Leave a comment »

Mini Sledgehammer: March 2011

Posted on March 8, 2011 by writer

What better way to celebrate International Women’s Day and Mardi Gras on the same day than to head to a wine and cheese shop to compete in a women-run writing contest?

This month’s writing prompts are:

Character: Women’s activist
Action: Sneaking
Setting: A church
Prop: Mardi Gras beads

With these prompts, tonight’s story topics ranged from an illicit affair to an angel with an agenda. Congratulations to Blythe Ayne for writing the winning story. Stay tuned to read it!

***

Angels to Nirvana

by Blythe Ayne

I was crawling around on the church floor after my Mardi Gras beads, which had mysteriously jumped their string and flown every which way in a wild jumble.

At that moment, in the middle of the rowdy carnival celebration on the street, a bunch of women’s activists came bursting through the door of the church. Don’t ask me how I figured that’s what they were, they just had an air of self assurance and determination to change the world for better.

The first one came up to me as I squatted under a pew, gathering my beads. She stepped on one of them. It went “crunch!” under her sturdy shoe.

“What are you doing, sneaking around on the floor of the church?” she asked.

“I…” I gestured at the beads, green and silver and orange all around her… “My string of beads broke, and I’m….”

“Never mind.” She waved to her compatriots, three other very sure-of- themselves looking women. They formed a crescent moon curve around her. Looking up at them, it was like a visitation. The street lights came through the stained glass windows making a halo around them. I felt like I was looking up at guardian angels. Gabriel, at least, for sure.

“This young man,” she continued, “has broken his string of Mardi Gras beads. Help him pick them up.”

The three women fell to their knees and scrambled around for the beads, under the pews, in the aisles… everywhere.

“How did you come to be in this church?” one of the women asked me. “Oh look, here’s seven beads, all together.”

“I don’t know. I was in the street, celebrating…” I looked into her eyes. They were that kind of hazel composed of green and brown and almost red segments. I stopped talking.

“Go on,” she said.

I… you… your eyes…..”

“I know, kind of strange, aren’t they?”

“But I’ve seen you… Do you know me?”

She shrugged, but looked away.

“Do you know me?” I asked again.

“Here’s another bead.” she moved across the aisle on all fours, but somehow so gracefully, almost floating, as if it was a well-practiced dance move.

I scrambled after her. Clearly less graceful. “You know me, don’t you?”

As she picked up another bead I reached out to stay her hand. A flash of light passed between her hand and mine.

“What the?….” I sat back on my haunches, stunned.

The first woman came up to us, standing over us, disapproving.

“Just gather the beads!” she ordered.

The hazel-eyed woman moved away from me, picked up another bead, but didn’t hand it to me.

“Give me the bead,” I said. She cautiously reached out her hand, her long fingers stretched impossibly toward me, she dared to look me in the eye. The flash of light passed between us again.

“I know!” I fairly shouted. Then quietly I said, “I know where I’ve seen you. In my dreams. In my dreams,” I repeated. “Have you seen me? Do you know me?”

She looked over my shoulder.

“Yes,” she whispered, “yes, I know you. But just leave me in your dreams. You don’t want to bring me out into your real world.”

“What do you mean? You are in my real world.”

A saxophone player belted out a song in the street, a song I’ve never heard but felt I knew so well.

Just gather the beads,” she said. When you have 108, you’ll arrive.”

“What are you saying?”

“Count the beads–108–you’ll arrive in nirvana.”

I counted the beads, wanting only to look one more time into those strange, amazing eyes.

I counted 107 beads, then looked up, discovering that I sat on the sidewalk, under the saxophone player. He was about seven feet tall, his music came from far away.

“Hey…” I asked him, “Hey, did you see a hazel-eyed woman? An amazing hazel-eyed woman?”

He looked down at me and again, I felt like the guardian angel in the church window had come alive. He didn’t stop playing, but he nodded.

Yes, he’d seen her.

The faint lace of dawn crept up the sky behind the saxophone player, pink and pale orange. I looked down at my hands filled with Mardi Gras beads, longing to see the hazel-eyed angel again. But I knew I never would.

She had kept that one single bead to nirvana.

***

Blythe Ayne, Ph.D., lives on ten acres of forest on the north side of the Columbia River near Portland, Oregon. She’s is an author, artist, and university instructor of writing and speech. Her written work has appeared in over one hundred publications. This is her second Sledgehammer appearance.

Along with her writing, her greatest commitment is to the stewardship and preservation of her forest, where wonderful and diverse flora and fauna thrive.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Blackbird Wine, Blythe Ayne, free, Indigo Editing, prizes, Sledgehammer, writing contest | Leave a comment »

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