• Visit Indigo

    Sledgehammer is proudly presented by Indigo, which offers editing, design, and more to authors and publishers around the world.

    Visit us at www.indigoediting.com to learn more and to schedule a free sample edit and initial consultation.

    Indigo: editing, design,
    and more

    Sign up for our monthly e-newsletter.

  • Join Our Networks

    Facebook
    Twitter

  • Photo Gallery

    To view photos of Sledgehammers past, visit our Facebook photo albums!

    All photos property of Sledgehammer Writing Contest. Most photos copyright Doug Geisler.

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.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: , , , , , , | Leave a comment »

OBA 2012 Mini Sledgehammer

Posted on April 23, 2012 by writer

On Saturday morning, writers convened to take part in the first-ever customized Mini Sledgehammer for a larger event, and it was incredible! Thanks so much to Literary Arts for inviting us to join the lineup of festivities leading up to the 25th Annual Oregon Book Awards.

In the spirit of the awards, all the prompts were titles of this year’s finalists:
Character: Calvin Coconut
Action: Putting Makeup on Dead People
Setting: The Hut Beneath the Pine
Phrase: You Don’t Love This Man

Congratulations to Jennifer Gritt, first-time Sledgehammer participant, for winning not only fame and glory but also a complete set of twenty-five years’ worth of Oregon Book Award winners.

***

Untitled

by Jennifer Gritt

Calvin Coconut avoided the company of people. His whole goal in life was to be left alone, to live life like a hermit, embrace the silence of the world. Growing up in the small village of Wholesome, Calvin had learned from a young age to avoid the conversations of others. He stood quietly on the edges, offering nothing. The villagers took pity on him for they thought he was slow of mind. They treated him like an old dog entering his last weeks of life. He moved in and around the people of the village like a mist. Sometimes, upon suddenly noticing him standing there, a villager would startle as if seeing an unexpected ghost. Then she would smile sympathetically and sometimes pat him on the head. It was only the women who seemed to notice him and he didn’t mind the touch. For he knew they just did that as a way to acknowledge him and quickly move on.

When Calvin got older and older, his parents seemed to age twice as fast. His mother and father treated him as the rest of the village treated him—sometimes even forgetting he was there altogether. On his nineteenth birthday, they died together in their sleep. Calvin felt a wave of sadness when he discovered their bodies—slumbering now for eternity. He would miss them.

When Max the undertaker arrived to take care of the funeral arrangements, Calvin refused to leave his side. Max carefully prepared the bodies for the funeral in silence while Calvin stood in the corner watching his every move. They said nothing to each other—not then, not after. And it was better that way.

Soon after his parents’ funeral, Calvin moved a few miles outside of the village. The was an old shack just on the edge of a forest under a giant tree. There Calvin made his home. Every now and then, a woman in the village would remember Calvin and ask after him. “I think he lives in the hut beneath the pine,” someone would respond, “you know, that old hunting shack a few miles south of the village.”

For years, Calvin was neither seen or heard from. Only Max the undertaker seemed to remember him at all. One day, Max ventured out to Calvin’s hut. He was retiring, you see, and was looking to pass off his business to a worthy man. Being an undertaker was more than just putting make-up on dead people. There was a ceremony to it, an affection, a love. Only the true of heart could perform this task.

Calvin was working in his garden when Max arrived. The two men did not say a word to each other. Silently, Calvin went in to grab his coat and his hat and locked the door behind him. They walked back to the village in silence.

When they arrived, the butcher’s wife ran up to Max. She was crying and waling. For her husband had suddenly died while he was working in his shop. A heart attack. The village was devastated. The butcher and his family were well-liked. When the villagers saw that Max had brought Calvin back to the village, they started to wonder why the old man had done this. When they realized that Max was going to have Calvin prepare the butcher for burial, they were concerned and somewhat outraged.

“How can Max do this?” they cried. Some of them secretly wanted to go up to Calvin and beg him to leave the butcher’s body alone. “You don’t love this man,” they wanted to say to him. “You don’t love any man.”

But Calvin soon put the villagers’ fears to rest. For when the butcher was placed in his coffin, he was the image of beauty and peace. The villagers were amazed that Calvin could prepare the dead for eternity with as much grace as he did. And they were grateful that he was once again part of the village.

© 2012 Jennifer Gritt

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: , , , , , | Leave a comment »

Mini Sledgehammer April 2012: St. Johns Booksellers

Posted on April 19, 2012 by writer

The prompts were marvelously specific this month, which led to themes ranging from love to murder, and almost every story had room to grow much bigger. What a blast! Congratulations to Mr. McLaren, whose winning story earned him a copy of Ink-Filled Page and a $36 gift certificate from St. Johns Booksellers.

Prompts:
Character: A slam poetry champion
Setting: On an apartment building fire escape
Prop: A venetian glass paperweight
Phrase: “There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you.”

***

Slam Judge

by T. A. McLaren

Somehow Stillman had allowed her to talk him into judging a poetry slam. Judging. Poetry. And he was already late.

His good friend Eleanor Barnes, English teacher at PS 109, had organized the Poetry Slam for the past six years.  She said the kids would remember a scorecard they got from a real-life detective.

He was familiar with the neighborhood around the high school. He had lived not far from here when he first moved to town many years ago. He came back sometimes to visit a buddy who lived in an apartment building across from the high school.

He parked down a side street and was taking a shortcut through an alley when the explosive sound of shattered glass brought his attention to a spot not 5 feet in front of him. The heavy brass base of a venetian glass paperweight remained dented but intact. The splintered red and blue glass around it was like a bright and brittle obituary.

He looked up past the hanging ladder to a window opening onto the third floor fire escape. It was open and a heavy red curtain was flapping in the wind.

Otherwise, there was nothing unusual going on. No one around. No other sounds except cars on the street. He was intrigued but remembered his judging duties. He continued to the end of the alley, across the street and into the high school.

When he entered the auditorium Eleanor shrieked and ran to him.

“Stillman, dear, we were afraid you were caught up in some dark and mysterious adventure.”

“Sadly, no, ” he laughed as she pulled him in. He returned her hug.

“Come on,” she said, “lets get you down in front.”

The logistics were simple enough. He was given a stack of white poster boards and a fat sharpie. As each contestant concluded their performance – there was no other word for it – he was to provide  his Olympian judgement (on a scale of 1-10), hoisted high above his head for all to see.

Eleanor was MC. After laying out the ground rules, she introduced the first poet.

Stillman was surprised that he enjoyed the first reader’s piece as much as he did. He liked the attitude, images, and brutal honesty, both social and personal. Many of the subsequent writers were good, too. There were a couple of exceptions.

One young man, reluctant to reveal any vulnerability, still managed to devote five minutes to his broken heart, repeating the quotation “there is no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you”.  Maybe the kid thought it was spelled “baring”.  Whichever way he spelled it, Stillman shared his agony.

At the conclusion, his friend tallied the votes and announced the winner. It turned out to be the first poet. Stillman got up to congratulate her and say goodbye to Eleanor.

As he was talking to the young woman, he noticed Eleanor jog quickly up the center aisle to meet two policemen who had appeared at the back of the auditorium.

Stillman followed his intuition, excused himself and quickly headed for a side door. He cut quickly through the school grounds, and back across the street to the alley.

He looked up at the fire escape. A cop was peering out the open window on the third floor. On the street, near the spot where the paperweight had landed not an hour before, a trench coat had been hastily thrown over a broken, crumpled body.

© 2012 T. A. McLaren

***

I write for work as a systems analyst. I started writing fiction with Write Around Portland a few years ago. The Mini Sledgehammer is the first prize I ever won. Despite my excitement, my so-called friends are insisting that I keep my day job for the time being.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: , , , , , , | 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.

© 2012 Miriam Lambert

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: , , , , , , | 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!

Register here.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment »

« Previous Page — Next Page »