• Visit Indigo

    Sledgehammer is proudly presented by Indigo, which offers editing, design, and more to authors and publishers around the world.

    Visit us at www.indigoediting.com to learn more and to schedule a free sample edit and initial consultation.

    Indigo: editing, design,
    and more


    Sign up for our monthly e-newsletter.
  • Join Our Networks

  • Photo Gallery

    To view photos of Sledgehammers past, visit our Facebook photo albums!

    All photos property of Sledgehammer Writing Contest. Most photos copyright Doug Geisler.

The Great BOLD Write-Off: August 2026

We had a great time at the Great BOLD Write-Off in August! Small crowd but great stories! New Bold barista Luke Cohn was off the clock and decided to compete, and he took home the prize! Congrats, Luke!

Prompts:
Character: A songwriter
Action: Smiling
Setting: On a broken computer
Phrase: “Don’t you dare.”

***

In the Back Room of U-Break-I-Fix 

by Luke Cohn 

“Come on.” Rafi slams his hand on the table. “Come on, baby. Come on, come on.” Spinning wheel of death. Maybe Rafi could take up a new career. “Don’t do this. Don’t crash.” Maybe he could invest in a nicer computer, or at least a mostly functional one. “Don’t you dare––“ Maybe he should forgo all technology and live contactless in the middle of the woods. He had an uncle do that, once, or perhaps the friend of an uncle, or even–– 

“Oh. Fuck.” The computer’s screen goes black. “I’m ruined.” Rafi is not prone to violent outbursts of rage, and it’s not his fault, definitely not his fault, that his computer ends up on the floor. Accidents happen. 

He explains this, later, to the technician at the hole-in-the-wall U-Break-I-Fix shop on the sketchy side of town. He heard from a friend they had the best prices, if you didn’t mind the smell of burning plastic and the neighborhood. 

“Accident, huh?” The tech pulls a piece of glass from Rafi’s laptop screen. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Cheers, man.” Rafi gives his widest smile until the man disappears into the back. To kill time, he wanders the haphazard aisles of the store. There’s no word more accurate than ‘junk.’ Junk piled at least four feet high, junk on tables, junk with wires, some junk that might have once had organic matter mixed in but is long since dead. 

“Whatcha lookin’ for?” 

“JESUS FUCK.” Rafi places a hand over his heart. “What the fuck?” 

“Um, hi?” The person standing in front of him looks like a pixie. For an insane moment, Rafi thinks maybe they are a pixie, with their wild curly hair and bleached eyebrows, but reminds himself he’s not living inside a video game. The video game currently in progress on a laptop with a peeling screen that won’t boot up. The video game that he spent months working on and is probably completely lost to… to wherever video games go when the only hard drive they’re saved on crashes. Probably hell. A special one, for developers like Rafi, who don’t think to back up those hard drives. “Hello?” the person repeats. 

“You’re not a pixie,” Rafi says.

They tilt their head to the side and take on a mischievous grin. Rafi is distracted by the freckles on their nose. “Who’s to say?” 

“Oh. Right.” Rafi clears his throat. “Well, I’m not looking for anything,” Rafi says. “I’m waiting.” 

“Cool. Me too.” The probably-not-but-maybe-a-pixie smiles. “Come with me.” “Who? Me?” Stupidly, Rafi looks around to see if they’re talking to him. As if there would be more than two customers in the shop. Rafi’s shocked there’s even one. He just really, really needed that game to save, and this was the only shop open after five on a Sunday. “Yes, you, silly.” The not-pixie grabs Rafi’s hand. “I’m Willow.” 

“That’s… not not a pixie name,” Rafi says. That is, in fact, the name of the pixie character in his video game. Creatively stolen from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. “Astute,” Willow says. “Sorry I couldn’t be more obvious.” They pull him through the maze of aisles of junk, beyond a reasonable depth the shop could inhabit, longer, even, than the city block the building exists on. Rafi’s just about to ask Willow if they’ve possibly entered an alternate dimension, which wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to happen to Rafi but this time he’s fairly certain he’s not tripping on anything. 

“Voilà.” Willow drops Rafi’s hand––was it that sweaty the whole time, or just because they were holding it?––and puts their hand on their hips proudly. “Your kingdom.” “Ha. Cool. WHAT?” 

“Oh. Okay. Um.” Willow frowns and chews their bottom lip. Their ears, if possible, are pointier than Rafi thought. And somehow he missed the fact that they weren’t wearing shoes before. “Sorry, this is my first day on the job. I used to be the court jester, and before that the king’s bard, but I got bored. And I wasn’t very good. I can’t rhyme for shit. And you don’t want to hear me try to carry a tune. But everyone always assured me changing careers a couple times was normal. I thought I might find tour guide a bit––” 

“Sh.” Rafi covers his eyes with his hands and takes three very deliberate breaths. In for four, hold for six, out for eight. Repeat. “This cannot be real.” 

“Can’t it?” 

“I don’t want it to be real?” 

“Oh, and I suppose because you’re God, you think you can just want something out of existence?”

“GOD?” Rafi’s so shocked he forgets to be panicked, and he un-shields his face. Willow is standing where they ought to be, but they have wings now. And their teeth are slightly pointier. And Rafi could have sworn–– 

“Nice to meet you.” 

“I’m just Raf. Rafi. Not God.” 

Willow blinks at them, with eyes that are much too big to be human. “Huh. Most people would be pleased to be God.” 

“Well, sorry to disappoint, Willow, but I’m not, okay? I don’t want to be God. I want to be Rafi. I want to go back to my shit apartment with my broken heart and my broken computer––“ He cuts himself off. “Wait. Wait. I added you last minute to look like––” He doesn’t say Georgie’s name. He doesn’t even think Georgie’s name. Nor about their freckles, so similar to Willow’s, or the way they bleached their eyebrows in the same way. No, Georgie stays very far from Rafi’s mind. He wipes his sweating palms on his cargo shorts. “The game… saved?” 

Willow shrugs. “Dunno.” 

“We wouldn’t happen to be inside my––“ 

“Hey, bud? No sleeping here.” 

Rafi jerks around, coming face to face with the shop technician. “I wasn’t sleeping.” But he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to call it. He looks over his shoulder, but Willow’s gone and the shop full of junk looks like it should. Which is like a shop full of junk, and not a kingdom populated with kings and centaurs and pixies that look like Rafi’s ex. “Sorry.” 

“Good news, I saved the hard drive.” The technician hands the small black object to Rafi. “Bad news, that computer was beyond fucked. But we have a few options…”

(c) 2026 Luke Cohn

The Great BOLD Write-Off: March 2026

Harvey’s 30-minute story speaks to regret and what could be if we could only turn back time. Congrats on the win, Harvey!

Prompts:

Character: Someone who does extreme sports

Action: Passing judgment

Setting: In a school

Prop: A time machine

Ticket to Thomas

by Harvey Liao

There he was—smiling and laughing with his friends, leaning against the wall of the gym. The last bell had just rung, and everyone was either eager to run home or lingering behind to say their goodbyes. Thomas was the star of any room he walked into. He could make conversation with anyone and everyone, and by the end of it, they’d consider him a friend. That is, if they ever gave him a chance. I know I didn’t.

I was still an intense, sports-obsessed loser in high school. It was all I ever thought about. I barely stretched my time between lacrosse and soccer while managing to make passing grades. I was always a man of few words and even fewer friends. I didn’t feel that I needed them. The companionship I felt on the field was enough.

Then, he came into my life and ruined it all. The other guys on my teams tolerated me because I was the one who scored the most points. They’d cheer and clap me on the back when I made a goal, and I could sometimes convince myself that they liked me.

They hated Thomas. He was confident and happy and had the audacity to also be different. In our little conservative town, Thomas was the only openly gay guy any of us had ever met. I would say he was brave, too, but it’s not like he made the choice to come out. He got caught kissing Daniel Jacobs behind the school freshman year by one of my soccer teammates.

Daniel Jacobs was one of our teammates, too. The other guys tore him to shreds over it. I didn’t stop them. I stayed quiet and trained more, like I always did. Daniel Jacobs killed himself that summer. My teammates turned their sights on Thomas after that.

During our senior year, Thomas sat next to me in math class. He didn’t ignore me or avoid me, like anyone with an ounce of sense would do. His opening line was, “Thank you.”

“What for?” I asked.

“You never join in with your friends to harass me.”

I wanted to say, “I never defend you, either,” but instead I said, “They aren’t my friends. We’re just on the same team.”

His face lit up when I said that. My mistake. After that day, he never left me alone. The worst part was that I didn’t want him to.

I started thinking about him at practice. I’d be so angry with my teammates that I refused to pass to them. My performance started to tank, and their cruelty turned on me.

I stopped talking to Thomas on the last day of our senior year, when he told me he had feelings for me. I knew that I was going to become an athlete someday, and he was already distracting me as it was.

Now, it’s been 50 years. I had my career as a snowboarder. I even won the Olympics, but when I looked back at my life, I only thought of Thomas. So, when a ticket to a time machine became available, I took it back to him.

Mini Sledgehammer November 2019

Chris Smith’s stories are regular favorites. Check out his latest winning story below, and if you haven’t read his others yet, search his name in the search bar. It’s like you’re own mini-collection of Chris Smith flash fiction!

Prompts:
Character: A traveling Evangelist
Actions: Forgetting the song lyrics
Setting: Inside a cup
Prop: A rejected manuscript

Congrats on another win, Chris!


Electric ChapelAventures in Portland 2019 (223)-Edit

By Chris Smith

Her hands gripped the steering wheel tight. Her long red nail glistened in the moonlight like talons of an eagle. She descended to me when I was in a dark place in my life. She first came on the television and was I was hypnotized. Her words touched my soul and lifted my spirit to a realm I never knew existed. It was only minutes long but the goosebumps lasted hours.

I had to find everything I could about her. Her past, her present, and our future. I was devoted to her! I found a small, yet growing following online. We were close knit and support each other. A group of societal rejects bowing at her feet. Worshipping her every move like God herself.

We tried to spread her self-written gospel far and wide but rejection came at every turn. She was too much, too different, too…weird. People would turn from her grace, her commandments, forgetting the words of her hymns in a few months declaring them a one hit wonder. But we, especially me, knew better.

Soon she started spreading the word across the nation; hitting every city big and small. She preached on stages, then theatres, then stadiums, then whole arenas. People started to take notice and see the talent some of us always knew was always there. We were so happy to see the small, nurturing cup of joy that is our star grow into a fully-fledged Queen. She rode our love and worship to the top of the charts. We owe our salvation to her, and she owes her fame to our devotion.

© 2019 Chris Smith


Chris Smith says, “I’m an aspiring filmmaker, photographer and writer. 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.”

Mini Sledgehammer October 2019

This month’s Mini Sledge brought out a supernatural flash fiction piece from Jacin Harter. Congratulations on your first win, Jacin!

The prompts were:
Character: A psychic
Action: Hitting the brakes
Setting: Beside an old tree
Phrase: “That’s incomplete.”


Beyond Belief

By Jacin HarterJacin

This was the last straw…  Weeks of forensics had led nowhere, but the frustration had not driven Sgt. Troutbottom mad enough to resort to supernatural bollocks.  Every promising clue had turned into a dead end, with Chief Inspector Pillows insisting his psychic premonitions would guide them to the answer.

Sgt. Troutbottom stood by a withering, old oak whose naked limbs cast clawing shadows over the latest victim.  He peered at the corpse without stooping.  This was simple: a hit and run, driver didn’t hit the brakes in time, no witnesses this far out in the sticks so he drove off.  Open and shut.

He could hear Pillows shouting at the other officer, ‘This evidence log is incomplete!  I want all these metal filings listed by length and weight.  Nothing near the body is inconsequential.  Am I clear?!’Clear as a cracked crystal ball, Sgt. Troutbottom thought.  The inspector’s current hypothesis: an extraterrestrial made of intangible psychic energy (which only he could detect) had descended upon this lonesome pasture to study cattle from the inside out.  The metal filings, along with an assortment of bottle caps and rusted nails, were among an assortment of ‘psychic instruments’ used by the alien in its dissection study.

Sgt. Troutbottom peered again at the dead cow.  ‘Waste of fucking time.  Waste of good beef.’

© 2019 Jacin Harter


Creativity is like a tiger on a string – hardly captured and just a few frightful fuffs away from devouring Jacin Harter whole. For the past six years this Jacin and this tiger have been sighted in Portland, OR, randomly strutting through radio theatres, travel videos, vasectomy parties, and dog buses.  Exactly who is leading whom is ambiguous indeed, and one is advised to take caution when approaching either.

Mini Sledgehammer September 2018

This month’s winner notes that he’s grateful to get to “pick up a bottle and book in exchange for a few dubious words.” Congratulations, Craig! He adds, “I should note that there were some truly terrific stories tonight.  These events provide such a great opportunity to hear some fine sentences carved out in just a few minutes by intriguing and clever people.” We’re glad you enjoy them.


Prompts:

Character: A woman executive
Action: Good will hunting
Setting: The International Space Station
Prop: An old radio


Directive 38foster

by Craig Foster

Directive 38 was nothing more than an afterthought, really. An exercise coughed up from an office outside Mission Control with a view toward figuring out how to pass ourselves off to the others, out at the farthest reaches. Presuming they hadn’t met us already, this would be a preemptive strike in terms of letting them know we’re OK. Not to be feared.

Or trifled with, though.

It was little more than a good will hunting mission, and Bobbi W called in Dr. Kuwahara to lead it. She’d been part of the training program near Enoshima, Japan. A test of whether dolphins truly were as smart or smarter than us. The jury was still out, but a few of them made it through school fairly quickly and two had already been granted PhDs. Dr. Kuwahara – a damn bottlenose, no less – had expertise in astronomical sociology and would be put to good use. Bobbi W, the first woman executive at the space agency, set the wheels in motion and arranged for Dr. Kuwahara to be transported in a tank to the launch pad in Kyrgyzstan.

It wasn’t the craziest thing that had ever happened to the good doctor. And she looked forward to presenting humans to the others as best as possible. Leave out the bits about nets and knives. Or weave a story around them that might put everyone at ease. You couldn’t count on an attack on people not also causing some collateral damage in the seas and on the savannahs.

It took a bit to get to the International Space Station, but the launch was moderately safe and the tank held its water.

The welcoming party was limited to the biologist, also from Japan. That didn’t exactly float well with Dr. Kuwahara, but she refrained from spouting too much. Told herself, it’s a flipping test, Sadako. Don’t let them stop you from heading out a bit further. So, she didn’t. Made one of those noises everyone pegged for laughter, and the biologist said something polite and encouraging to her.

They’d built a supermarine for Directive 38. A maneuverable pod filled with water and provided with just enough of the button controls Dr. Kuwahara would be familiar with from her time at the university. The communication mechanism looked like an old radio, which didn’t matter to the doctor, as she didn’t plan to talk to use it. No need to talk to anyone back at the station once she was out and about. There were three channels if she needed them, however: one that received sounds from within a few hundred thousand miles, another that allowed for communication with the station, and a third that played familiar audio from Earth. Some dolphin-speak to provide a presumed measure of comfort. A little bit from above ground, just for kicks. And a mix of French chansons, big band instrumentals, post-punk thrash, and news of the world.

A couple of astronauts joined the biologist, and after a series of checks were made Dr. Kuwahara’s tank was wheeled toward the already-filled supermarine. There was a waterlock filled with just enough liquid to allow for what the humans determined was an easy transfer from one watery home to another. They were half right. Dr. Kuwahara took a blow to the nose during the transfer, but everyone applauded and felt even better when she made that laughing noise again.

She clearly was of the proper demeanor for this mission.

 

Space isn’t empty. Not at all. In fact, it’s packed. It gets lonely because there’s too much matter out there. More than enough atoms to choke an endless supply of dolphins. But Dr. Kuwahara loved it. She turned a few times in the supermarine, staring through the two windows provided. One at the bottom of the tank, and one at what must be the front of the thing. Showing where she was heading, in any event.

She hit the radio and it played La Mer.

The good doctor went over the mission in her head. Humans: 1; Others: 0.5. Just to shw it wasn’t a completely uneven playing field. She played in her head everything she would communicate to whatever she found. Of salt and blood, buckets of fish. How to be right and proper in their eyes. When to speak and when to just watch. Mention their favorite jokes.

Say how to stay alive.

Or maybe reveal the one spot where she knew the humans were vulnerable. For kicks.

The song switched to La Vie En Rose, and this time she did laugh.

© 2018 Craig Foster


Craig Foster is an editor based in Portland, Oregon who every now and then tries to write stories. These usually revolve around oddballs and misfits, the most normal people he knows. Tahoma Literary Review, Buckman Journal, 1001, and Arq Press have published a few of these tales, which should prompt an investigation into their decision-making process. Lastly, the author would never misrepresent his physical appearance with a photo from twenty years ago. There are ethical standards to be maintained.