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Mini Sledgehammer November 2012: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

One thing you can say about Mini Sledgehammer: it’s never boring! Kristin arrived after taking two buses to find the venue double booked (with a pleasant group talking about dying over a microphone).

She spotted three of our regulars in the corner. They chatted; they decided the night wasn’t right for a Mini. Two of the three left; Kristin waited for the third as she used the restroom. While Kristin did so, a familiar face appeared: two of our main Sledgehammer participants had been sitting across the room!

So then there were three, and they had prompts, and Kristin had wine, and they wrote. No one cared about the prizes–they just wanted to write. But there was a winner! Congratulations, Kevin!

Prompts:
Character: A patient participant
Action: Double booking
Setting: A sunnier place
Prop: A mandarin collar

***

Untitled

by Kevin Nusser

Usually I am patient, good at standing still and thinking. In middle school, I would lie on the couch bored to death. My Mom would go down a litany of things to do. I would tell her I was beyond boredom, too bored to do anything more than stare up at the ceiling. Usually I am patient.

On the weekends, I stand outside the goodwill outlet store for an hour in the cold, just for the chance to bring the first at the old books. In that line of thirty people I am patient.

But this line is not about patience. It is about desperation. We have all been told the chances of getting on this flight to a sunnier place. We all can feel that warmth. But this flight has been double booked. And this line suggests bookings of infinitely more.

I stand behind a little girl dressed in a fine kimono with a mandarin collar. She is not a patient participant, exhausting her mother and already tired of the few magic tricks that I know.

We slowly shuffle forward, inching towards that place in sunnier weather. I do not know whether I am waiting to get on the plane or waiting for the signal that my life is doomed.

A block from the terminal the doors are shut by national guardsman. I think of wasted minutes as the Mom hugs the kimonoed girl.

And yet, we stay in line. Usually I am patient, even to death.

(c) Kevin Nusser 2012

Mini Sledgehammer October 2012: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

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.

“Flipping the Bird” by Writers with No Name

Character: Police station clerk
Action: Tightening a knot
Setting: A meeting for a subversive group
Prop: Decorative songbirds made from vinyl records

***

Flipping the Bird

by Writers with No Name

“So,” Cliff picks up a molded vinyl Chickadee from a long row of metal shelving and flips it in the air. “What’s with the fucking birds?”

Howard slumps in his metal chair. “My wife made them. It’s why I called the meeting.”

“Jesus, Howard, you want me to buy some birds, all you got to do is fucking ask. Why you got to bring me here off-hours?”

Cliff swings his head to take in the long rows of neatly tagged and bagged evidence. Darryl picks up one of the decorative songbirds and turns it over, scanning it in silence. Like ebon origami, the bird is a delicately folded and stretched vinyl record, softened in boiling water. The label – Charlie Parker with String – is somehow still intact.

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“Hypnos” by Team WonderBra

Congratulations to Team WonderBra for winning the 2012 Readers’ Choice Award!

***

Character: Police station clerk
Action: Tightening a knot
Setting: A meeting for a subversive group
Prop: Decorative songbirds made from vinyl records

***

Hypnos

by Team WonderBra

I can’t stop kicking the leg of my chair under my seat.  The clock says 2, and it’s the first moment today I’ve noticed the time at all. I can’t remember how many hours it’s been since I sat down in this chair. Hell, maybe it’s been minutes.  Maybe the junkie sitting across from me has been here for days, drifting in an out of a fitful sleep as he pulls at his tattered Batman t-shirt. Maybe he knows the secret of rewinding time back to yesterday, and if I shake him hard enough and plead with him enough and tell him what a terrible and unfair thing has happened, his glassy eyes will soften and he will look at me with understanding and oblige me. But he only stares at me, letting me know he hasn’t slept for days and wants things to be normal too.  I keep kicking back and forth into the chair leg, wanting it to punish me back.

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“The Princess and the Hobo: A Portland Fable” by Skinner and Sinner

Character: Police station clerk
Action: Tightening a knot
Setting: A meeting for a subversive group
Prop: Decorative songbirds made from vinyl records

***

The Princess and the Hobo: A Portland Fable

by Skinner and Sinner

I wondered whether flesh was under the fabric of the two forms approaching as I slumped against Skidmore fountain. In a way, they were angels completing our circle of protection.

“Dan, how’s Sarge?” asked Hank, rubbing between furry ears.

Sarge’s steel collar tinkled like a music box over the bubbling fountain. His tongue lagged out too big for his mouth.

Pat revealed a bottle inside his jacket.

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