Mini Sledgehammer | Sledgehammer Writing Contest

Mini Sledgehammer July 2012: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

Posted on July 16, 2012 by writer

This turned out to be the last Mini Sledgehammer Ali will host for a while. It was great to see some of the regulars as well as a couple new faces, and we’re excited to have Kristin take over Mini Sledges!

Congratulations to Elissa Nelson for writing a story with great character development and a nice plot arc.

Enjoy reading!

Prompts:
Character: Park planner
Action: Not buying moose insurance
Setting: At grandma’s house
Prop: Explosives

***

Untitled

by Elissa Nelson

“You’re not going to skip the moose insurance, are you?” Jessie’s sister said, concerned.

“Jason said that everyone he works with says no one’s seen a moose on this island since the 30’s.”

“But you’re going to take your car off the island, right?”

“No moose insurance, Rita.”

“But Jessie—“

“Guess how much moose insurance adds to the premium. My car and Jason’s car, with moose insurance the six month premium goes from nine hundred dollars—“

“Nine hundred dollars!”

“For both cars, for six months! From nine hundred to fifteen hundred.”

“Ugh. No moose insurance, then.”

“No moose insurance.” Jessie changes the subject. “Where are Tania and Justin?”

“They’re with grandma and Steve-o for the fourth, of course!”

“Oh right. Steve-o and his explosives, eh?”

“Yep. Grandpa would have a fit, wouldn’t he?”

“You know he would. Give my love to the kids, of course. And grandma, and Steve-o.”

“And mom. Of course. She’ll probably call you later anyway.”

“Yeah, probably. How’s her new career going?”

“Her new career?”

“Park planner, right?”

“Oh. I think that’s more of a hobby, really. Like, they’re looking for a volunteer to do some gardening at Lake Green Park, you know? And it sounds like mom can do what she wants, but of course she’ll have no budget to buy plants or anything…”

“Is she taking cuttings from the yard?”

“We haven’t really talked about it. Anyway, this isn’t the time of year to transplant anything anyway.”

“It’s not?” Jessie says. She doesn’t really care, but she also really has no idea.

“Early spring, or late in the fall,” Rita says impatiently. “How’d you grow up with mom and not know that?”

She didn’t really grow up with mom, as Rita knows. She grew up living with dad, who took off when she and Rita were in college, sent postcards from all over the place for a while, and now they—her, mostly—hear from him every six months or so. She’s seen him every year/year and a half, he’ll stop by from wherever he’s been—living in Mexico for a while, as far as Jessie knows he’s still there—before that he was in New Mexico, before that, Oklahoma, before that Alabama. She visited him in Alabama—that was a weird place. He was doing his art stuff, working as a security guard in some weird little museum. She visited his museum—he showed her the whole thing, it took about forty-five minutes.

She guesses he won’t visit her in Alaska. But you never know with dad. And it’s not like she’ll have the money to get to Mexico.

Also, far as she knows he’s never been to Alaska. So that alone might get him there. There aren’t many places he hasn’t been, at this point. At least that’s what it seems like to her. Also she knows he’ll just be so glad she’s getting the hell out of California, even if she is gonna go back. He’s told her that staying in one place for twenty years, from the time he met their mom until Rita then Jessie went away to college, was maybe the hardest thing he ever did. She knows she has a little bit of that in her, too. He passed it along. Only a little bit, though. She and Jason will spend a couple years in Alaska, then they’ll go home. And yeah, start the family and all that.

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Mini Sledgehammer May 2012: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

Posted on May 17, 2012 by writer

The strangest thing happened while I was waiting to start this Mini Sledgehammer. I arrived very early, which is strange in itself, and then it got to be 6:57, with no writers! I thought I was going to experience my first empty Mini Sledgehammer. Then as the clock clicked over to 7:00, four writers showed! And their stories definitely did not disappoint. Thanks for coming out, everyone!

Prompts:
Character: Someone dressed in a banana costume
Action: Reading Where the Wild Things Are
Setting: A city park
Phrase: “Well that was unexpected.”

Newbie Rachel Lombard won over the judge with a clear beginning, middle, and end–and some nice prompt creativity too!

***

Untitled

by Rachel Lombard

I’m not sure exactly how it came to be, but it was mid-afternoon in mid-October and I was standing in a busy parking lot, dressing my son, Charlie, in a banana costume. He was too excited to wear his new costume to wait to unveil it on Halloween. He was five. He wanted to wear it now. And “now” to a five-year-old doesn’t mean let’s don it tonight at home. It means let’s drag it on over our dirt-encrusted clothes straight out of the slippery plastic bag with the hard plastic handle that we somehow just broke while walking out of Target.

“Really?” I asked, hoping the uncertainty on my part would spur him to change his mind.

“Yeah, Mom. Please? I really, really, really want to wear it *at* the park.”

I paused and studied him in the long autumn light. Recently I’d been feeling like I wasn’t the mother I should be or could be toward him. And having declared that morning that I was going to be a more in-the-moment – and thereby more-fun-to-hang-out-with mother – I sensed this was my chance…and acquiesced.

“Alright. Take your shoes off.”

He started jumping uncontrollably with a glee reserved for five-year-olds who live in the moment and do not yet care what is situationally appropriate. “And what is situationally appropriate, after all” I thought. “Didn’t Brad Pitt spend his days in a chicken suit? So what if that was for money. This is for the pursuit of happiness.”

And I was happy. I was happy that he was happy. I was happy that in his moment of joy he only head-butted me once. But I was only semi-happy that he – Mr. Giant Banana – fit in his booster seat. At first I thought I could get away with an “Oh, no…that’s terrible. You don’t fit? Well, maybe next time. What do you want for dinner?”

But he did fit. He squeezed in, and, eventually, squeezed out, and we found ourselves at Summerlake Park. He ran over to the playground and made his way up the stairs, the banana suit hampering his movements like Victoria Beckham pencil skirt. The other children welcomed the sight of a giant banana in their midst.

I sat on the bench, practicing reading my Spanish version of Where the Wild Things Are, trying to sound more authentic for when Story Time came at the local library. That’ll teach me to add my cell number to a volunteer sheet with events unspecified at sign-up.

As I stumbled over the words, a mother from school sat down next to me with a chuckle. “Well now! That’s unexpected! No one is going to believe this when I tell them.”

“Hi Martha. Yeah, he can’t wait for Halloween. I wish I could get that excited about something.”

“Me, too. But we probably did once. When it was our turn to be young.”

Charlie kept playing, looking over to me occasionally, shouting out musings to me incoherent over the voluminous wind. Twice I was caught nodding at inappropriate times during his running commentary. This upset him. He chided me with a, “Mooooommmm…” from his perch at the top of the slide.

But he had to forgive me. He was dressed as a banana.

Then I realized, part of being a fun-to-hang-out-with-mom is actually listening to his nonstop chatter and making him feel valued. So I made another effort.

“Charlie, honey. I really can’t hear you. Please come here.”

And he tried.

And it ripped.

The banana suit was done for. And Charlie sat motionless, before bursting into tears.

In an instant, I met him at the slide. “Oh honey, it’s okay.” I raced to find a way to find the bright side of this catastrophe. “You know what Mommy is really good at?”

He shook his head through his tears.

“Sewing. And I would love to have you help me fix this so you can wear it to the park tomorrow.”

He managed an “Okay,” and then The Smile returned. Maybe not as gleeful as before, but there was an ever-increasing hope in it.

And I thought to myself, by being in the moment, I had rescued this moment. Day One. Great success. Good job, Mom.

***

Rachel Lombard has published poetry as well as trade articles in career magazines and is currently working on her first screenplay.

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Mini Sledgehammer May 2012: St. Johns Booksellers

Posted on May 11, 2012 by writer

We often see themes in stories that aren’t necessarily inherent in the prompts, and this contest was definitely one of those. Stories covered psychosis, murderous dreams, and games the mind plays when it thinks it’s found a killer. Sarah Lambert’s story stole the prizes for its “most creative use of a prompt and best incorporation of an ending, according to judge Néna Rawdah. Congratulations, Sarah!

Prompts:
Character: A man who has killed
Action: Lying down
Setting: A small-town parade
Prop: A city bus

***

Untitled

by Sarah Lambert

What time was it?

The man woke to a pounding in his head. What time was it? There was a thrumming noise in the background, strange and incongruous to the thumping in his head. Hung over. Was it a hang over? What had he done last night?

He realized slowly that it was pavement under his head. The grit of gravel against under his cheek said that whatever had happened, his night had not involved the warm embrace of a good woman. Gradually his senses took in other things – the taste of bile in the back of his throat, the brightness of the sun shining in his eyes. Morning, was it morning, or had more of the day passed? How much time had he lost? What time was it?

Slowly he moved to sit up and realized his body was too sore, too stiff, for such exertions. The noise in the background grew louder and began to shape itself into distinct sounds. Brass music, cheering, an engine honking. Was it a parade? The thought was so ridiculous he almost laughed out loud, but his throat was raw with vomit and no sound came.

The man lay still on the pavement, willing movement but surrendered to the awareness that none would come. The parade – if that’s what it was – came closer. Where was he? Laying still was his best action, but he allowed his eyes to move and gradually adjusted so as to come up on his elbows. The sun was bright overhead, his awareness had not been wrong. He’d been lying in an alley behind what looked like a warehouse, slightly back from a street. The sidewalk of said street had a scattering of people on it, none of whom was looking at him. They were all looking out, waiting for the…the honking, and the brass instruments, and the people…the parade. The goddamn parade.

The man remembered being a child, his excitement at 4^th of July, begging his parents to take him to the parade. He wanted to see fireworks and sparklers and eat a hot dog and enjoy the music. Somehow waking battered and hung over with no memory in an alley, the presence of a parade brought all the innocence of the child he had been forcefully back to him, and the man smiled with the delight of one who’s parents allow him cotton candy.

That was when he noticed the blood.

Not a lot, not enough to be his. On his hands mainly, but there were splash marks up his arms. His heart froze in his chest, and somewhere deep inside he felt a moan but no sound came out. Blood. What had happened, where was he, what time was it?

Once long ago in another life he’d received a massage. At the end of it the therapist had said, “when you are ready, slowly turn to one side and sit up.” He heard her voice in his head now, clear as if she had been standing next to him, and he slowly rolled to his side and pushed himself up to sitting. The effort made him dizzy but he succeeded.

The parade was closer, almost to his block. He saw a child waving an American Flag. Was it the 4^th of July? He was probably the only person in the world at that moment who didn’t know. The child had a flag, he looked for sparklers but didn’t see them. He liked sparklers.

No one saw him, or if they did they pointedly looked elsewhere. He didn’t know how he looked, but he could venture a guess. It would probably be easy to ignore him, to assume he was street trash and leave it at that. Another day – yesterday – he would have done the same.

He had money, and a home. A job, not much but enough. The parade was at his street now, and the thin crowd made it easy to see. The expected brass band at the front, no doubt with a sign announcing they were part of some community center, a black car with the mayor (it did most of the honking), others to follow, his vision blurred and memories began to splice back together in his mind.

He’d taken Julia out – his on again off again friend who was sometimes more but usually less – a nice quiet dinner away from the city. His car broke down on the way there. She was unforgiving of his suggestion they get a cab to go the rest of the way and had used it to take her home instead. He couldn’t leave his car and was mad at her for abandoning him. Fortunately the road was on the route of a city bus and the driver was able to take him part way to a mechanic shop. He had to walk the rest of the way, but it was okay.

His memory suddenly became blurry again, his heart rate increasing. Something about the mechanic shop…something there. The sound of the parade was no longer comforting or innocent to him. It was clashing against the terror of his memory. There had been a drug deal, he had walked in on it, his life had been in danger, and he had survived.

That was what the man remembered as the parade marched on.

His hands were red but they would wash clean, as the whiskey had washed his memory.

***

Sarah Lambert is a local business owner who enjoys writing for the most part as a hobby, though is not above attempting the occasional book. More of her writing is available on her blog, Notes from a Rational Psychic, at www.bodyinsights.com.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: free, Indigo Editing, Mini Sledgehammer, prizes, Sarah Lambert, St.-Johns-Booksellers, writing contest | Leave a comment »

Mini Sledgehammer April 2012: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

Posted on April 17, 2012 by writer

One person arrived for Mini Sledgehammer . . . then another. In the end, there were six writers, four of whom had never before participated in a Sledgehammer, Mini or otherwise. Three of those four are participating in our special OBA Mini Sledgehammer, and they wanted to test their strength and limber their muscles before then. And one of those four won this month’s prize.

***

Prompts:
Character: Procrastinator
Action: Surprising
Setting: A board-game competition
Phrase: Batten down the hatches

***

Untitled

by Miriam Lambert

Henry was going to propose to Clara on the fifteenth of May, 2009. Her birthday. He’d planned it out down to the shoes he would wear when he took her to Iorio Ristorante: blue, with patent leather soles that he imagined made him look like a dancer.

But then a week before the day one of his patent leathers got a hole, and while he was going to have it repaired, the shop he liked best had closed the month before, and by the time he found another one it was the fourteenth, and they’d only do a rush job if he paid an extra $85 up front with no guarantee of workmanship, and Henry’s momma hadn’t raised no fools, so he left the shop with his patent leathers in his hand, a hole in the sole and his thin chest swelled with righteous indignation.

By the time he got home his chest had deflated and he was sunk in uncertainty. He could wear his Oxfords. They were old, though, and brown, and he harbored a sneaking suspicion that they made him look as if he were wearing orthopedic supports.

Clara was already seven years his junior. He couldn’t propose to her wearing orthopedics.

He pulled the lid off a can of spagettios and dumped the contents into a pot. Stirring the red mass, he turned the problem over in his mind. He could wear sandals. Sandals might be hip. He’d seen a guy Clara’s age wearing sandals, and he’d looked hip. But he wasn’t sure Iorio Ristorante would let him in wearing sandals.

Then his head shot up – the restaurant! He’d forgotten to make the reservation at the restaurant! Leaving the spagettios on the stove, he hurried to dig his phone out of his bag. When he finally found it, its battery was dead.

Henry sank into a chair. It was a sign, he decided. First his shoes, then the restaurant, now his phone. He was not meant to propose to Clara tomorrow. It was too soon, anyway. They’d only been dating for eight months. He’d give it some time.

Three years later, Henry was determined. This time he’d do it. For certain. The last two years had been bad luck – Clara had got a spring flu in 2010, and Henry’s weak immune system meant he had to avoid germs. For two weeks they played Battleship over the phone – Henry had called “Batten Down the Hatches” the first time Clara hit one of his ships, which made her laugh, so he’d kept saying it every time afterward. She didn’t laugh at it anymore, but if he stopped he’d feel dumb that he hadn’t stopped earlier, so he kept saying it.

In 2011 Henry had had to attend a medical billing conference – bill con, they called it. It was at Disney World, but Clara still hadn’t gone with him.

But this was the year. Powell’s Books was hosting a World Battleship Competition, and Henry had gotten a place for himself and Clara. He put on his blue patent leather shoes and tied the laces with determination. Nothing could go wrong.

People were milling outside the bookstore when they arrived. Most of them were rather young, Henry noticed – in fact there were a lot of kids about. Some of them were wearing Naval Commander hats. Doubt niggled at him.

Clara was waiting in the lobby. An inch taller than Henry, she was auburn, slim, and she was wearing a cotton dress and sandals. Henry felt a pang. Maybe he should have gone with sandals after all.

But when he smiled at her she gave him a small smile in return, and she let him take her hand. They found a place at one of the tables in the back of the room.

As they sat down, Henry cleared his throat. “Clara, I wanted to ask you something.”

She raised her eyebrows. Henry swallowed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls!” the MC announced. “Please arrange your pieces. You have five minutes.”

“Let the World Battleship Championship begin!”

Clara scored the first hit. Henry felt a giggle rising in his throat. He choked. Clara looked at him in alarm, but he couldn’t stop himself. He tried to stop the words, but they were coming, and Clara knew it. She reached a hand toward him, but Henry was already on his feet.

“Batten down the hatches! Clara Williams, will you marry me?”

Everything stopped. Everyone was looking at him. Someone tittered. Clara was staring at her board. She didn’t meet his eyes.

Heat was rising in Henry’s face. He stood there, feeling foolish, feeling stupid, wishing he could sit down, wishing he’d worn the sandals.

He took a step, and then another. He slid across the floor on his patent leather soles.

He spun, and twirled, and hit a board that was sitting at the edge of a competitor’s table. The plastic pieces hit the floor and scattered.

Then he was out the door, dancing into the spring air, and Clara was running after him.

“Henry, wait!” she said. But Henry couldn’t stop. He was done waiting.

“Catch me, “ he called, and kept going.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Blackbird Wine, free, Mini Sledgehammer, miriam-lambert, Portland, prizes, writing contest | Leave a comment »

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 »

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Mini Sledgehammer July 2012: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

Mini Sledgehammer May 2012: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

Mini Sledgehammer May 2012: St. Johns Booksellers

Mini Sledgehammer April 2012: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

OBA Special Mini Sledgehammer

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