Mini Sledgehammer | Sledgehammer Writing Contest

Mini Sledgehammer March 2012: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

Posted on March 16, 2012 by writer

The wine shop was packed this month! We had eleven writers, all competing for some great prizes. Kathleen Valle shocked the crowd with the following piece and, not coincidentally, was crowned champion.

***

Prompts:
Character: The bearer of bad news
Action: Selling something
Setting: Neither here nor there
Prop: Boots

***

Women’s Health: Neither Here Nor There

by Kathleen Valle

I walked through the café door and the screen door slammed behind me, but customers were not alarmed.

This town was in the middle of neither here nor there, meaning that in any which direction you choose to set off in from this café—there would be no significant destination to reach. They might-as-well have a sign out front showing each direction:

“North 553 miles to Neither”

“West 4,492 miles to Here”

“East 996 miles to Land of Nor”

“South 130 miles to There”

And at each of these places is a dusty old café with people like this—withdrawn and unalarmed not only by the screen door, but also unresponsive to my boots walking their badass selves down the room. Passed the counter, and passed the booths of people that looked like they should be sitting in front of a gambling machine rather than across from another person.

I walk towards the back of the room where I see Rodney with his headphones on. He’s unable to hear the sound of my boots. I personally don’t know how I could live without the sound of these boots. They’re the sound track to my life. Some women like bangles, some men like keys on their belt loop; I like the sound of my boots. But, that’s neither here nor there in this town where people clearly have had too many years of doctor prescribed meds.

Rodney, now he’s a character who always has the sound track of his life playing. His hands are always moving to jazz beats when his headphones are on. Rodney’s always listens to jazz. He sees me approaching, removes his headphones, and sits up all proper-like as if he’s been caught off guard or if he’s the bearer of bad news.

I sit across from him. His pigmented eyes are more clouded over than I recall. There is an orbiting to his eyes—like jazz records spinning…moving tracks as he scans my presence. It’s been a while. His black hands are still now and I see the aging spots on them. The kind that look like moles or freckles, but aren’t—it’s just a by-product of being old.

“Well,” he said, “Welcome home.”

“Thanks, Rodney. It was 4,492 miles from “Here” to get here.”

“Is that right?” Rodney says shifting a bit in his seat and looking away from my gaze. He eventually returns his gaze with purpose and asks, “So do you want the good news first or the bad news first?”

I laugh so loud that people actually turn to look.

“Is this some kind of fucking joke? What kind of question is that?”

“I know it’s a hard decision. Now, which is it going to be” Rodney says hoping to proceed.

I think on it for a bit. Long enough to order coffee—black.

“Bad news first,” I say grasping tight onto the mug.

“She’s pregnant,” Rodney says.

“Okay, and the good news?” I ask.

“She’s pregnant,” he says.

“Well, there’s no good news and there’s no bad news, its just news Rodney. This is the land of neither here nor there, remember?”

The screen door slams. In comes the “Prescription Sales Team” ready for their afternoon pitch. A doctor in a lab coat tells how these meds will help this, that, and the other. The doctor’s assistant, like an announcer at a horse race, rattles off as quickly as possible the many side effects. The people in the café instantly take out their pocket books out to pay for medications.

The exchanges are going on and I ask Rodney if the abortion pill has made it’s way here yet.

“Oh, that? Man where you’ve been. You been gone a long time ain’t you?” Rodney laughs. “Didn’t you hear that they give those out free now? These here doctors don’t even sell those. Can’t even find ‘em on the black market no more.”

“What do you mean, free?” I ask.

“Well, they’s made up them minds to not give no more health care to the womens. So, instead, they give out the abortion pill. It’s cheaper than takin’ care of the womens they say.”

“So, she has a pill then already, if she wants?” I inquire.

“Yes, she do” Rodney said.

***

Kathleen Culla Valle has lived in six different states and is calling Portland, Oregon home for now. She is a Writing Facilitator with Write Around Portland, because she loves writing. Kathleen has been journaling and penning stories ever since she can remember, but has never actively sought publication. She has an MA in English Education from Brooklyn College and is currently substitute teaching.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Blackbird Wine, free, Kathleen Valle, Mini Sledgehammer, Portland, prizes, writing contest | 1 Comment »

Mini Sledgehammer March 2012: St. Johns Booksellers

Posted on March 16, 2012 by writer

We had two newcomers at this month’s Mini Sledgehammer in St. Johns, and they really made the judge work hard! Our winner, Elisabeth Flaum, was one of them, but it’s wasn’t just beginner’s luck. Her story was great.

***

Prompts:
Character: Elvis
Action: Trouble fixing a bride
Setting: Arbor Day
Prop: Garlic

***

Untitled

by Elisabeth Flaum

I walked through the park in the spring sun. I hadn’t known there would be an event here, I just stumbled upon some kind of celebration. Earth Day or something. Arbor Day. Children selling seedlings, booths of people selling plants or landscape services or for some reason, yoga. I wandered among the noise, my thoughts drifting.

At the far end I drifted to a stop in front of an ornate display. A colorful banner read ‘Save the Presley Foot Bridge.’ An Elvis impersonator finished setting up his boom box and began belting out tunes. A whole tribe of people stood behind the tables, handing out pamphlets and hauling in any handy passer-by. It wasn’t long before one of them spotted me. I deftly made my escape as she approached.

Or so I thought. I hadn’t gone twenty yards when a flock of children engulfed me, chirping. One of them pressed a flyer into my hand as they dispersed. ‘Save the Presley Foot Bridge.’ Ten yards further along, I noticed a table of young people selling plants bore the same banner. And the t-shirts on the volunteers. ‘Save the Presley Foot Bridge.’

My curiosity piqued, I returned to the display at the far end, where I was quickly engulfed by the tribe.

“All right, you’ve got me. What’s the Presley Foot Bridge?”

A young woman with warm dark eyes took me by the hand. “Come and see.”

Beyond the hubbub of the festival, beyond the soaring flocks of children, beyond the reach of the Elvis music, she led me into the trees. A tiny wood beyond the park, rich with birdsong and the rustle of wind in the leaves, the scent of wild garlic rising as we crushed the plants underfoot. The girl clutches my hand, her fingers soft and delicate in mine, and pulls me to a stop at the edge of a clearing.

“Do you see it?”

I peer out from under the trees, blinking in the sunlight. Tall grass waves in the breeze, fluffy clouds scud across the vivid blue sky. I see nothing resembling a bridge. I start to turn, to ask this girl what she means by this, when from the corner of my eye I catch a glimmer of… something. I turn again; with my head at just the right angle I can see it. A shimmer in the air, like heat rising from the road, but with a suggestion of color, like the faintest of rainbows. I turn to my guide, incredulous.

“You can see it.”

“I can see something. I think.”

“Not everyone can.”

“Tell me about it.”

“This land belonged to a family called Presley. No relation to Elvis, that’s just a bit of fun for the campaign. But they left the land in trust. They created this place as a passageway between this world and the next. But it was never finished.”

“Wait a minute. Between this world…”

She nodded. “And the next, yes. In the Presley family, knowledge could be passed down directly from preceding generations. They wanted to share that ability with others. But the last Presley crossed before the bridge could be completed. There’s no one left on this side to finish the job. Until… until you.”

“Me? Wait a minute. You’re talking about communicating with the dead. A bridge to another world. That’s impossible.”

Her dark eyes gazed into mine, all-seeing.

“It’s not. You know.”

As she said it I knew she was right.

“It only takes that special kind of trust.”

Suddenly it wasn’t a young girl’s voice I was hearing. It was the voice of my own great-grandfather, a man who was ancient the day I met him and who never grew less so. A man who appeared to me still in my dreams, as he had in my childhood, whenever I needed a guiding hand. He was there with me in the clearing in the woods, there with me and this girl I’d never seen before.

I looked into those dark eyes and saw myself. I reached out and took her hand. Together we stepped out into the sunlight, our feet climbing an invisible rise, riding on that special kind of trust. I heard the music, smelled the wild garlic again as we stepped into another world.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Elisabeth Flaum, free, Mini Sledgehammer, Portland, St.-Johns-Booksellers, writing contest | 1 Comment »

Mini Sledgehammer February 2012: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

Posted on February 16, 2012 by writer

Some people theorized that a Valentine’s Day Mini Sledgehammer would result in a serious lack of contestants, but lo, the crowd came out! Thanks to everyone who spent their V-Day with us.

Congratulations to Jarrod Schuster, whose disturbingly delicious story claimed first place.

***

Prompts:
Character: A twenty-something dog walker
Action:
Setting: An abandoned hotel on Valentine’s Day
Prop: Wrinkle cream

***

Untitled

by Jarrod Schuster

The Long Goodbye had seen better days. Once the pride of honeymooning couples and Valentine’s sweethearts, today it was a derelict monument to art-deco excess, and decay.

Chas had been trying to get Henri’s dog to commit suicide there for two whole weeks.

Henri, at home grading papers for her “day job” (as she so often felt the need to remind Chas of) had long relegated to him the task of taking Grief for her nightly constitutional. A more aptly named creature Chas could not imagine. Henri claimed she was named for how she acquired her – an impulse purchase after the ‘tragic’ death of her sister. Chas explained to anyone out of Henri’s earshot how she had been named for the misery her presence inflicted.

Grief was some kind of purebred freak of genetic casualty; an inbred, wheezing, bow-legged, smoosh-sinused terror of patchy fur and wrinkled flesh, whose appearance was long announced by nasal snufflings and whine riddled hacking coughs. Every morning, Grief was subjected to a series of vitamins, pills, drops and inspections that would make the most cancer ridden of geriatrics feel relieved at their own plight. And yet, in spite of the genetic minefield the dog straddled, every day Chas awoke to it’s wheezing hiccoughing need for ablutions.

The Long Goodbye had seemed like the perfect place to finally rid himself of the dog. A warren of exposed, still sparking wires, tetanus laced bed springs, disease breeding leaky pipes and a pool long reclaimed by the wet wild. Henri would never forgive him for outright “losing” the dog, but as Grief was born of accident, her demise by such would seem poetic to Henri’s literary attuned mind. “God bless English majors,” Chas had initially thought. Now his musings revolved around the capricious cruelty of heavenly beings who plagued him with the thrice-damned burden of ‘designer’ dogs.

Chas stumbled over the half-sealed front doors, hopelessly released Grief as he had a hundred times before, and prayed to half-believed in deities that tonight the damned dog would finally meet its end. Grief took off, as she always did, investigating the depths of the darkened lobby with a nose that Chas absolutely knew, could-not-possibly, smell any more than he could.

“I can help your dog, mister.”

Chas fell on his own ass in shock, trying to turn the panicked yip he had made in fear into a rough cough. A man in the shabbily mismatched layers of professional street people stepped into the partial light of distant street lamps, the miraculous buzz and stutter of the still functional ‘Hotel’ sign above the door lintel.

“Yore dog. I can help ‘er.” he said again, with the earnest sincerity of the evangelical. Or the insane.

“Ex-hrmm-excuse me?” managed Chas, back-peddaling on his bottom away from the ancient stranger.

“I can help yer dog,” stated the derelict, “With this!” He flourished a half-used, generic white tube. In black marker, long faded, someone had scribbled ‘Wrinkel Creem’.

Chas just stared at the man.

Taking the silence as assent, the stranger confidently strode over to Grief, scooped her up in one begloved hand. He unscrewed the cap of the ‘Wrinkel Creem’ with his stained teeth, liberally squirted out a line of dirty yellow gelatin onto the dog’s back. Pocketing the still uncapped tube, the vagrant began to vigorously scrub the cream into the dog.

Like a child scrubbing at an unworthy drawing with a fat pink eraser – the dog began to vanish. Tufts of fur, curls of flesh pattered to the floor as the dog, with only a slight snuffle, disappeared.

“T’ain’t right to do that to no beast,” said the derelict, “What you need is a proper mutt.”

As the man shuffled into the empty hotel’s depths, Chas realized his dream had come true.

He was so screwed.

***

The author of this work, like any good author, is entirely implied. Feel free to grace him, her or it with whatever characteristics, attributes, or opinions you may wish. Just do not be boring with your details. Everyone abhors a bore.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Blackbird Wine, free, Indigo Editing, Jarrod Schuster, Mini Sledgehammer, prizes, Valentine's Day, writing contest | Leave a comment »

Mini Sledgehammer: January 2012: St. Johns Booksellers

Posted on January 25, 2012 by writer

This month’s Mini Sledge at St. Johns Booksellers was a blast! Eight writers came out, and they even brought a couple bottles of wine. Congratulations to Lisa Galloway for winning the judge’s favor.

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Prompts:
Character: Cake decorator
Action: Washing feet
Setting: Childcare center
Prop: Strong scented candle

***

Jesus Comes Around

by Lisa Galloway

The gift smelled like cinnamon buns, so to unwrap a Yankee candle was not a surprise. My family is from the Midwest, if I haven’t mentioned it. I rewrapped the candle and brought it home to my housemate telling her it was from my parents for her. They did not buy her a present in actuality, but I felt bad, because she’d spent Christmas alone.

Well, not completely alone, she’d decorated ginger bread houses with brats at Kindercare and after got so wasted that she burnt her Stouffer’s lasagna in the oven. At least watching kids quells her need to make her own babies. Her boyfriend was with his brother’s family. She was not invited. She says it is because they are not married, but I doubt they know about her.

I should mention that he wears a 2 inch by 4 inch crucifix around his fat tattooed neck, and he hates me because I’m queer. Queer like short hair and all my friends are gluten-free vegetarians that change their names. He’s never said as much, but I gather by his tacky, Catholic icons. Not just the necklace but the god-awful tattoos. That and he never speaks to me. In fact, he stops talking when I enter the room or the door.

Her job before Kindercare was as a cake decorator, but she was too high most days to keep the iced piping even and straight. She smokes a lot more pot now that Jesus comes around. I’m not kidding. His name really is Jesus. Oh and in case you hadn’t guessed, he needs a green card. Well, yes, a medical marijuana card would probably help too, but I mean he’s not legal.

She loved the candle. I knew she would. She desperately wants to be suburban, live in one of those half-tan siding, half-tan brick, 2-car garage houses. Jesus is the first boyfriend that she’s had since high school. She’s 32. After she un-wrapped the candle, he picked up the glass jar with his fat kid-like fingers and took a big whiff. He smiled at me, lit it, and then nodded.

My housemate and I get along fine, but we have nothing in common except for eating junk food like dehydrated shrimp and pork rinds and watching Criminal Minds. I said my friends were vegetarian, but I am not. And yes, my real name is Lisa.

The last fight that I overheard between them was this summer. She’d worn flip flops all day. I think it was the 4^th of July. They’d been to that abhorrence at the waterfront, and basically her feet were dusty and caked with dirt. He’d told her that she couldn’t come to her own goddamned bed without washing them. She was drunk on $6 solo cups of beer, and she wasn’t moving. Laziness was one of her hallmark characteristics. So, he ended up washing them with a washcloth on the end of the bed. I thought it was tender in a fucked up way, like he was saving her from herself.

***

Lisa Galloway graduated from Pacific University’s MFA in writing program in 2007. She’s a Pushcart Nominee and author of the book of poetry Liminal: A Life of Cleavage. A NW transplant, Lisa grew up in Indiana where she was adopted into a family with Southern Baptist roots, she contends that the Bible Belt still leaves welts.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: free, Lisa Galloway, Mini Sledgehammer, prizes, St.-Johns-Booksellers, winner, write!, writing contest | Leave a comment »

Mini Sledgehammer: August 2011, Blackbird Wine

Posted on August 11, 2011 by writer

We sat outside Tuesday for a lovely evening of wine, cheese, and frenzied writing. While all the stories were quite strong, one stood out for all of the judges. We’re happy to announced Courtney Sherwood as the August 2011 Mini Sledgehammer (Blackbird Wine edition) champion!

Prompts:
Character: Landlord
Action: Haggling
Setting: The set for a TV show
Phrase: “I just came over here to…”

***

Reality

by Courtney Sherwood

It’s not like I didn’t know anything about the world when I ran away. Some of the kids in my homeschool group had televisions, and they’d whisper inscrutable tales about the world of sin when mama left us alone doing exercises as she changed a diaper or kneaded bread. When I was very young she even used to take me in to town on her supply runs. I saw billboards and the shockingly immodest attire of the modern world. Plus, mama and papa even talked about it, to warn us off, to explain why we lived this strange, sequestered life. Not that it felt sequestered. It was all I knew, and I was loved and nurtured and encouraged, as they raised me up to become a godly woman, a mother, a helpmeet and a wife.

And it’s not even like I was all that sheltered. The Bible’s full of sin, and so are the lives of those who call themselves godly. Mama and papa were kind, but some of the kids from our worship meetings came from stricter homes. No “spare the rod for them.” And after my best friend, Rebekkah, joined in holy matrimony to the godly man who’d courted her I heard of other horrors. Pain and cruelty that we didn’t know the words for, and no way to escape. Marriage was forever, an eternal binding of two immortal souls.

Since I struck out on my own I’ve met other girls and women who fled my sheltered, narrow world. Most were like Rebekkah – shattered creatures, nearly broken by expectations that they could no longer bear. But I was happy. It was the fear – fear of eternity with palm-shaped bruises, fear of a soul bound to a man I couldn’t love. And yes, fear, that the sin in my heart was greater than mama, papa, maybe even God could ever forgive. Though as I thought that I cursed myself, because God could forgive everything. He was perfect. That I could think overwise was proof of my imperfection.

So at 18, after papa headed off to work and mama left for her fortnightly shopping trip, I put my eldest younger sister in charge of the family brood, gathered my favorite calico dresses in a bundle, sneaked sinfully into mama’s spare cash jar and stole half of everything she’d left behind, and struck out east, hoping to have at least a few years of joy before the sin of it all devoured my soul.

I was book smart, I’ll credit the homeschooling for that. I could read and write, do my sums, and quote the Bible on command. But I didn’t know a thing about money or phones or work or the modern world. I slept outside the first night, and on the second day wandered into a town where I saw a “room for rent” sign on a telephone pole.

Took about 30 seconds of haggling with my first potential landlord to learn the $80 I’d stolen from mama was not gonna get me very far. That was three days ago.

The landlord was a woman, a lady with a day job and tall shoes and short hair, and a fast, important-sounding way of talking. A sinner for sure. Well, we’re all sinners, I guess. But she was doubly sinful, to watch her move and listen to her talk, and not a bit contrite. So it surprised me when it turned out she was also a little bit kind.

“You really don’t know anything about the world, do you?” she asked, the same look of wonder on her face as the younguns would get upon discovering yesterday’s tadpole had grown legs over night.

“Look, you can stay in the room, no charge, until I find a paying renter or you find a job. Could be a day, could be a week, could be a month. But if I find someone who can afford my rent brfore you can do it, you’re gone. And no pets, no smoking, no late-night parties, either.” She smiled at that. “Somehow, I think the job part’s really the only thing I need to worry about. You got any skills?”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Skills? Though I can bake and wash and corral a hord of children, plus think for myself a little even, I’d never thought of any of that in terms of skills, and so I hesitated.

“Great,” she said. “No skills. That’ll get you far. Well, follow me. I’ll show you to your room, at least for tonight.”

The room had a big bed, a clost, and even a television set. I’d seem them before, like I said, at homeschool friends’ homes, but I’d never turned one on, and that first day and night I was afraid to even touch it.

Day two, I walked downtown from my temporary home and went door to door in search of work. I never walked so much or saw so many strange things in all my life. Girls and boys holding hands. Men and women with skin all different colors. So much diversity, but one thing was the same everywhere I looked: No jobs.

My feet were blistered by the time I staggered back to the landlady’s spare room, and I only had $70 left, having spent $10 on food to get me through the day.

“I got a call about the room,” she said, as I came in. “I’ll be showing it off tomorrow.”

“I understand,” I said, biting back my fear. I was afraid of the future, but it was strange, because I’d been afraid of the future for months before I’d run away and this was a different kind of fear. There was an excitement hidden in it, and a stubbornness. I was not going back.

I fell sleep instantly when I got to my room, and when I woke everything was dark, there were crickets chirping, and suddenly I didn’t feel afraid anymore. I felt ready for the world – even for television – and I decided it was time to learn more about the sin of every day.

After a few minutes I figured out how to turn the television on, and that’s when I saw the ad for this show: “Seeking young men and women, age 18 to 28, for a new kind of reality TV.”

I got on the bus to California the next day.

I just came here to say, I don’t know much about reality, but I’m ready to learn and I need a job. I hope you’ll consider me for your television show.

***

Courtney Sherwood is editor of the features and business sections of The Columbian newspaper in Vancouver, Wash., and a repeat volunteer at the Wordstock book festival. She lives in Portland with her husband, jazz musician Ben Lincon, and their two cats. She loves to eat, drink, hike, sleep, read, write and dream.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Blackbird Wine and Atomic Cheese, Courtney Sherwood, Mini Sledgehammer, prizes, writing contest | 1 Comment »

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