Mini Sledgehammer | Sledgehammer Writing Contest

Mini Sledgehammer August 2015

Posted on August 24, 2015 by writer

We’re excited to announce that Kris Lovesey, frequent Mini Sledgehammerer, won this month!

Prompts:
Character: A journalist
Action: Popping a bottle of champagne
Setting: Stairs
Phrase: “I’ve seen weirder fish than that.”

***

Bretta & Gretta

by Kris Lovesey

Bretta arrived the morning earlier, at six thirty. She came on the first train from Berlin. Gretta hadn’t seen Bretta since she left for school eight years ago.

Two days ago, a spring storm blew over the towns spire. It had been standing for three-hundred seventeen years without any repairs, until it crashed to the ground- killing a known vagrant. No one in the town cared much for the vagrant and it was an annoyance for the clergy involved, to plan a burial they knew they were obligated to do- but wouldn’t receive a penny for.

Bretta came because she was a field journalist for a Berlin archeological publication, specializing in early Christianity.

The fallen spire cracked wide open revealing carvings in a rare early Germanic script. The whole spire would end up in Berlin, to be picked over ad nauseum. Bretta took the photos and wrote the story which would spark great interest in this spire- from this tiny town.

But we shall digress. And digressions end up in taverns, with the vagrants who didn’t get squashed by the tower. They were figuring out who Thomas (the squashed one) owed what, and if there was a way to settle his debts without him.

Bretta and Gretta were also in the tavern catching up. Of the vagrants Gregor was the most drunk. He just sold Thomas a cart, which he had burnt to a cinder pile before receiving the second half of the money for it. And, he noisily demanded the rest of the bunch to at least pay his tab for the night, as he had obviously lost much more than the rest of them at the hands of God squashing Thomas.

Gretta showed disdain for the men but Bretta assured her the down-and-out men of Berlin were much worse.

“I’ve seen weirder fish than that.” Were her exact words.
“Well, I don’t put up with their shit.” Gretta tensed up.

The bar lady popped the ladies a bottle of champagne. The cork hit Gregor square in the temple. Causing him to drop his beer. His foot slipped off the glass, sending him through a small cloth curtain door. Everyone in the in the tavern turned- hearing Gregor fall down into the cellar. Where a fifty farthing piece actually lodged itself under his shoulder blade.

Gregor awoke the next morning a beetle, and the rest is Kafka’s Metamorphisis.

Gretta did it. Killed them both. They definitely deserved it. They had done many terrible things. And it was time the world learnt the secrets in the spire.

***

Kris Lovesey is bloody sick of the status quo. Threatens to walk to Canada. Snores. Is trying to get Box Truck Press off the ground. Cant quite get around to making the most amazing cat coloring book known to mankind- seriously, aliens will come down to steal it, y’all just wait and see. Kris is fifteen feet tall, 2000 pounds of furry and kindness. Works for kisses on the cheek, chocolate, marijuana, and little pieces of paper with dead people on it. If you’re bored, he doesn’t care about you, but instead will recommend you read one of the many awesome books in the universe (or one by Box Truck Press). Box Truck Press doesn’t have a Box Truck yet, but watch out cause we are saving up those pieces of paper with dead people on them. #boxtruckpress on twitter. Kris demands you have awesome days, awesome sex, and if you miss an awesome sunset- just try and catch the next one. They happen at almost the same time each day, just to keep us all on our toes. Kris cares about you deeply.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Kris Lovesey, Mini Sledgehammer, popping a bottle of champagne, writing contest | 1 Comment »

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 June 2014: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

Posted on June 16, 2014 by writer

Sledgehammer founder Ali McCart got to host her only Mini Sledgehammer in Portland for the year this month. It’s great to be back, Portland! Thanks to Daniel Granias and J.B. Kish for coming out.

Here were the prompts, no doubt inspired by things Ali missed about Portland:

Character: A bike rider
Action: Receiving a message
Setting: During a summer storm
Prop: A guitar

Congratulations to J.B. Kish for taking home the prizes. Love the intensity in this piece!

***

What Comes Next?

By J.B. Kish
“A-sharp. G. Show him, Allison, show him.”

Allison, breathless and clothes sticking to her paper-like skin, repeated her mantra, riding the ten-speed up the lonely saguaro-riddled highway with strange determination. The monsoon rain was biting at her neck, the summer storm overtaking her faster than she’d thought something naturally capable. Here she was, a thirty-two year old bicyclist from Portland, Oregon, terrified for the first time in her life to be riding a saddle at three in the afternoon.

“A-sharp. G. Show him, Allison,” she barked to herself. “Show him you can do this.”

She kicked the pedals down, allowing the pendulum of momentum to suck her heels upward, then she repeated this process again and again. Soon, the rain came in horizontal sheets and slapped against the cracked pavement rhythmically. In a matter of seconds, her picturesque view of the Catalina Mountains was swallowed by gray—what was it, clouds? Fog? She focused on the road in front of her—the only three feet she could make out between eyelid-soaked blinks and bursts of air she ejected from her bottom lip in an effort to shake free her face from that unavoidable soaking.

“A-sharp. G.”

She plucked at the guitar strings of her mind, suddenly imagining herself in front of the mirror hidden in her childhood home’s attic. She was holding her father’s guitar in her arms, wondering desperately how to play the song he’d taught her. The one that he played for her when she was afraid to go to sleep at night. Afraid of the monsters of adulthood.

“Think, Allison,” she demanded of herself. “What comes after G. Think goddamnit.”

But she couldn’t remember. The storm yawned once more, spooking her toward the center of the road. A single pair of headlights approached, blinked, and soared past. She thought to herself how close she might have come to death had she accidentally steered in front of the car just moments before.”

“A-sharp. G. Show him you can do this.”

She closed her eyes and tried to shake the thundering clamor of storm. She pumped harder and harder. Running from something she wasn’t entirely sure of. Running from the message she’d received just five days earlier. Running from those words on the voicemail.

“Goddamnit,” she cried, taking a mouthful of rain. “What comes after G?!”

“Straighten your hand, and press here.”

She imagined her father, suddenly sitting next to her, holding her hand in his own.

“It’s important you learn discipline,” he told her, his words that special mixture of warmth and emotionless-instruction that only a father can produce. “It’s important you learn, Allison. I won’t always be here to help you.” He looked at her, his expression flat in the attic mirror.

“A-sharp. G. Then what?”

“Show him Allison.”

“A-sharp. G. Then what?”

“Allison, it’s your mother. Where are you?”

“Straighten your hand. Then press hard here”

“Allison, I’ve called you five times. Don’t make me do this over voicemail.”

“No, press harder here.”

“Allison, It’s your father. The doctors say he fought so hard…”

“Show him, Allison. Show him you can remember what comes next.”

“Allison. It’s your father—”

***

J.B. Kish

Originally from the Southwest, J.B. Kish moved to Portland, Oregon, in 2012. He spends his weekends in a walk-in closet turned office working on his newest novel, A Wall for Teeth and Stingers, and other works. He can be reached at jbkwriting@gmail.com.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Blackbird Wine, free, j.b. kish, Mini Sledgehammer, Portland, prizes, writing contest | Leave a comment »

Mini Sledgehammer March 2014: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

Posted on March 17, 2014 by writer

This month’s winner, A. L. Adams, used the prompts in interesting ways, and we love the twist this second-person story takes.

Character: The person no one expected
Setting: Where everything is topsy-turvy
Prop: Untied shoelaces
Phrase: Watch your step!

***

Watch your step when you go down to the boathouse. In the winter, the stairs are frosty; in the summer the top ones are mossy and the ones at the waterline are often beslimed. If you want me to escort you, Nan, I will. I’ll hold your and and slip my arm under your elbow to support you as we climb.

The boats are closer now; the tide is higher so they make free with more of the space. The Tollycraft wears a green visor; the tugboat’s got that brickred stripe, designed to disguise whatever rust. No, Nan; we’re not getting on them. Yes, Nan, they are “quite a sight.” The trees? We could cross the bridge to see those trees, but remember? You didn’t like that last time. Yes, Nan, the rocks are dirty but no, we can’t clean them. Those are barnacles. See how they’re so stuck-on?

Now let’s go in the boathouse so you won’t get too cold. We’ll open the door so you can still see the boats. This door seems stuck—no, i’m creaking it open…Hey. Everything’s in disarray. The ropes are unlooped and flung like shoelaces. Our little skiff is turned halfway over, gagging on water. The other boat…Another boat? We don’t have one! But there it is, another boat, hullup on the concrete walkway like a space invader’s pod. Wait…I know that boat. Oh, God! It’s rolling over!

Dad?

Oh, God; how long have you been here? We didn’t know your sentence was up.

What the fuck do you mean, “It’s not?” Pardon my French, Nana, but Dad. What the FUCK.

Nana—no, it’s okay Honey. This is Wallace. Yes you do. Your son.

Dad. Fuck. We never saw you, okay?

We’re just…okay okay. Nana Honey? We saw the boats and now we’re going. That’s it; very good. I’ve got your hand, Dear.

Watch your step now as we go up these stairs.

They can be slippery.

Yes. I know.

A. L. Adams daylights as an art spy for the Portland Mercury and Oregon ArtsWatch. She moonlights as many things, and has more than a few stories.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: 36 minutes, 36-minute writing contest, a. l. adams, Blackbird Wine, Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese, Blackbird Wine Shop, free, Indigo Editing, Indigo Editing & Publications, Mini Sledgehammer, Portland, prizes, publish, short story, writing contest | Leave a comment »

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