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Mini Sledgehammer October 2012: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

Posted on October 11, 2012 by writer

Kristin arrived by bicycle at 7:02 p.m., but returning Mini Sledgehammer friends had the evening under control: They were happily dividing up responsibility to come up with the writing prompts. Thanks, all! In addition to the regulars, a couple of new faces joined the group this time–very cool. And every Tuesday is now all-day happy hour at Blackbird! What a treat for us, since we’re there every second Tuesday.

Congratulations to Amy Seaholt!

Prompts:
Character: The Other
Action: Makin’ it or breakin’ it
Setting: Home sweet home
Phrase: the kindness of strangers

***

Pinpoint

by Amy Seaholt

I like to ignore The Other. She irritates me to no end. It wasn’t always that way.

Back in the day, when we were trying to make it or break it in Hollywood, we were a team. Inseparable. The glorious Gibson sisters. Our star was just a pinpoint in that bright LA sky, but we were determined to make it shine brighter. The Other was the talker, but I had the voice. She talked her way into getting us the audition with Mr. Crosby. I never knew exactly how she did it but I had my suspicions; her behind closed doors and a feather in her lipstick line. When we got the gig, it was me Mr. Crosby was looking at. My voice made it happen. The Other called him Bing.

We were photographed in matching scarves and brown bobs curling around our jaws, squeezed lovingly into a convertible owned by one mogul or another. It lasted like as long as the flash of the bulb that caught us.

Mr. Crosby got us one last job on the Luxe Radio Theater hour. But radio wasn’t a ticket to the big time. We came away no brighter than we were before.

No matter how much The Other tried to work her magic, in her hot pants and kitten heels, it wasn’t good enough to catch more than a glance from those moguls. I knew the problem, of course. She was too pushy, too forward. It made her unappealing and easily used. Her voice wasn’t as clear as they wanted and I was tied to her, as sisters are. I wanted nothing to do with it.

“I think it’s time we moved on,” I told her one day. She stubbed out her cigarette and said, “Where do you think we should go?”

“I don’t mean we.”

She halted, water half-way to her lips. “Yes you do,” she said, eyes locked on mine. “We work together.”

“Maybe it’s time we stopped.”

“Maybe it’s time you appreciated all I have done for you,” her eyes narrow and venom filled now. “All of the times I have taken you along for the Goddamn ride because you’re blood.” It wasn’t the reaction I had anticipated.

“Maybe we should go to Daddy’s place in Tahoe. The casinos are taking off there,” I said.

We moved to our home sweet, faux log cabin home that fall. Suffered through the snowy winter while our bodies tried to acclimating to the altitude and the remote life. By the spring we had a show at Harrah’s lounge, and The Other took bits of Harrah’s home after hours. Decorating her bedroom with a red fabric covered reading lamp and supplying our kitchen with institutional white plates. It was her way of adjusting to the life that is now ours. Trying to keep hold of the dream we never achieved.

“Don’t take that stuff, we’ll get fired,” I said as she pulled another table setting out of her purse.

“The maitre d’ gave it to me,” she insisted.

“He did not.”

“I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers,” she said

“You have not.”

When I picked up my paycheck yesterday, there was a note that my boss, head of entertainment, wanted to speak with me.

I went into his dark office and shut the door behind me. “Is there a problem?” I asked.

“It’s about your sister,” he said.

“We’re not a team. I barely know what she does each day.” I said, separating myself from her again, stepping forward and shrugging a shoulder out of my wrap.

(c) Amy Seaholt 2012

Amy Seaholt is a realtor by day and a writer by night. Sometimes that day/night thing gets mixed up. She is participating in the Attic Institute’s Atheneum program as a fiction fellow, focusing on her first novel. You can find her here: www.awkwardlaugh.com. Or here: www.amyseaholt.com. She lives in Northeast Portland with her husband and two young children.

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Mini Sledgehammer August 2012: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

Posted on August 17, 2012 by writer

We had such a fun time at this Mini Sledgehammer! Five participants, four of whom had never before been to a Mini Sledgehammer (and the fifth had only been to one other), and since we all arrived early, we got to talk and laugh before settling down to “work.”

Prompts:

Character: The man with the glint or reflection in his sunglasses

Setting: A doorway

Action: Scabbing over

Prop: Something that has been placed where it should not have been placed

Congratulations, Melinda, on your winning story!

***

Untitled

by Melinda McCamant

Christopher told me he placed the dream catcher in the doorway to snare me if I ever tried to leave. He said this over cinnamon pancakes and the scent, something like my old blue baby blanket and a sunset, made me think that I was never going anywhere. I dug in, sweet syrup and butter coating my tongue. Oh yes.

Then I found the panties—no, panties is too kind. Then I found the crusty thong in the glove box of Christopher’s car. They were black and bedazzled, the sort of thong a stripper sheds for her last hurrah.

“Did you find the registration?”

We had been pulled over—sixty miles an hour in a thirty—and Christopher’s voice had a hard edge to it. My fingers started to go numb as I held the panties in one hand and the car’s registration in my other. I could see my lost expression and the pulsing red and white in the police officer’s sunglasses.

“Registration?” It was the cop this time, only his voice seemed kinder than Christopher’s—but maybe that was just me seeing me in the mirror lens.

I dropped the panties in Christopher’s lap and let the registration fall on top of them.

The cop and I stared at Christopher’s lap.

“Those aren’t mine,” I said, and Christopher chuckled as he handed over the registration.

I was holding it together until he laughed. The car smelled like the stale thong and cow hide. As soon as we were alone, I started to cry. Silly scratchy uncontrolled sobs.

Christopher picked the panties out of his lap. “I don’t have any idea how those got here.” He dropped the thong into the backseat. I looked into the rearview mirror and saw the cop open his door, walking slowly back towards the car. I covered my mouth, tried to quiet down. “You’re overreacting,” Christopher said and turned his attention to the officer.

I thought of the dream catcher, how it hung a little too far low and how I whacked my head on it every time I left the apartment. I thought of each small knot holding me in place and how I wasn’t a dream to be caught but a girl with no dreams beyond sweet syrup and heated leather seats. I felt my tears dry, scab over, fall off my cheeks. And as the officer handed Christopher his ticket, I opened my door and stepped out into the crisp afternoon.

“Alright, ma’am?” the cop asked.

The air was cool but the sun though low on the horizon still felt warm on my back and shoulders.

“I’m fine, thank you. I think I’ll walk from here.”

I looked across the top of the car and once again saw my reflection in the cop’s glasses. Only this time my hair was lit up from behind and seemed to glow like a moth escaping a flame. I smiled and the cop smiled back and I heard the click of the automatic lock as Christopher started his engine and slowly pulled back into traffic.

(c) 2012 Melinda McCamant

Melinda McCamant writes about food and drink both for her own blog and for other more reputable and consistent sites on the internet. When not baking or contemplating what to make next, Melinda is either talking to the cat or hard at work on her first novel. You can find her pictures and writing here or on Facebook.

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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.

© 2012 Rachel Lombard

***

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 4th 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 4th 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.

© 2012 Sarah Lambert

***

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.

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