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“Alone” by Shijia Zheng

Posted on July 29, 2015 by writer

Alone

Shijia Zheng

Her voice made me happy.

That was her first thought when she heard that person sing, saw her open her mouth for the first time. Sarah didn’t think much about her when she first met her. Actually, no, she never really acknowledged her existence before that moment; she was just a relative of a friend before that. Sarah didn’t so much as look up when she stood in front of the screen and selected the song. She had been gloomy over her mother’s illness, and her friends’ attempt at cheering her up seemed to be failing miserably.

Then, everything seemed to disappear when Sarah heard her voice. It was powerful, yet gentle. Its sound seemed to blow everything away. It beckoned to her, as if telling her that everything will be okay, and that her prayers would be answered.

There was another feeling, a feeling that seemed to make her hyperventilate while her heart beat so fast it felt like it might burst. When Sarah looked up at her, at her long, black hair that grew past her eyes, covering a pale, oval-shaped face, she became a different person from the nonentity an hour ago, yet she didn’t need to change anything about her. Sarah watched in awe as that person took the lyrics as her own and released them as doves that fluttered out to newfound freedom. That feeling that Sarah had as she watched her, she wasn’t sure what she was feeling that time. And she wasn’t sure if that was good or not.

Five years later, approaching 18, she wished she hadn’t felt this feeling.

Sarah wondered if she should have never asked her (former) friend about that person that day. Maybe she shouldn’t have approached that person after her performance. Unsure of the feelings she had, Sarah let them dictate her actions that day, and soon enough they had become two peas in a pod, doing everything with each other. She took all of Sarah’s worries away from her just by being at her side, and her voice was a like a remedy to her depression. But…

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

Sarah snapped out of her thoughts. An irritated customer was standing in front of her, waiting for her to ring up his items. She hastily rang them up, not even paying attention to what he bought, tossing them into the shopping bag. The man looked up at her in disgust at her mistreatment of his newly bought junk. Nonetheless, he pulled out his wallet and slammed the bills in front of her, not even bothering to pick up his change as he stormed off towards the exit.

Sarah watched him leave with a tinge of amusement, then pulled out her phone from her pocket and looked at the time, trying not to look at the missed call alerts that lined her screen. Her shift was going to be done in a few minutes.

She wished it didn’t.

In the past few months, she considered the Wal-mart she worked at more of a home than her own apartment. She didn’t want to come home to her dead-eyed, unmoving father. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she was tired of taking care of him. A growing part of her wished he would just wither and die already, for the sake of both of them. She’s already sacrificed her friends, her education, and yet he didn’t so much as speak.

But in the end, Sarah still dragged her feet back home. She felt horrible for wanting him to die. How could she treat her only remaining family like that? Her father was just grieving as much as she was.

As she was walking home, Sarah gazed up at the night sky. That person was always saddened about how the light pollution had wiped away the stars. When she had time, she would travel to the countryside to see the night sky in its entirety, stars and all. Sarah wondered where she is now. She had declared that after she graduated, she’d take a year off, rent a small house in the nearby rural neighborhood, and just enjoy life for a bit. She should have graduated by now, and Sarah wondered if that person followed through with her desire, even with the recent events.

Sarah felt her cell phone vibrate in her pocket, bringing her back to reality. She didn’t take out the phone, and waited for the vibrating to stop. She didn’t even want to look at the name that would be written on the caller I.D.; there was only one person who would call her. The calls had become easier to ignore, but right now, the timing of the call with her thoughts had left Sarah annoyed and self-loathing.

Why can’t Sarah just forget about her? Why did she have to concern herself with what that person is doing without her?

She had hurt Sarah, even though that person tried hard not to. Then again, it was Sarah’s fault in the first place. She had been selfish and childish, and she knew it, but Sarah still wanted to do away with her. In the midst of her grief, she had become vulnerable enough for her heart to take over and spill her true feelings in front of that person. They were already close, but Sarah wanted to be closer, thinking that that person could take away all of her burden if they became more than just best friends.

Looking back, she should have known that there was an underlying motive to her response. She had taken her agreement at face value, without even realizing that that person had deceived her.

It was only after she called off the relationship, and slapped her with the truth, did Sarah realize that she didn’t reciprocate her love. That person claimed that she did it because she was scared at what Sarah might do to herself if she rejected her, but then realized that lying about her feelings only created more complications. It was too late, though, the damage had been done.

Even though she had only put on the act for a week, that person had given Sarah hope, only to rip it away in the cruelest way possible. Even though she genuinely seemed guilty about it, and was beating herself up with the act, Sarah couldn’t find it in her to feel remorse. She wanted so much to forgive her, but she just couldn’t, and so just erasing her from her mind seemed like the second best option to go.

Sarah didn’t even realize that she had reached her apartment already until she had already walked through the door and saw her father sitting still in his wheelchair, facing the glass door to the balcony.

She had read that sunlight can improve a person’s mental state, but she didn’t see any improvements. Still, the only thing she could do was keep trying.

She walked past her father and slid open the door. She walked out, leaning against the balcony railing. The landlord had been complaining about the late payments, and Sarah was already running out of money fast. They weren’t going to stay here for much longer. A disappointment, really.

Sarah felt her cell phone vibrate in her pocket again, and she felt the urge to toss it over the railing. She had already isolated herself enough, there was no one else she could talk to anyway. Before she could do anything, though, the vibrating eventually stopped, and her irritation subsided.

She looked down from the balcony. They lived on the upper floors, and a small thought had recently seeded itself into her mind and had grown alarmingly. She laughed internally at how easily she could do it. She could even bring her father along with her if she so pleased.

Sarah ended up walking back inside. Maybe she’ll do it one day, because it is much quicker than forgetting and waking her someone up. But for now, she’ll bear with it.

Filed under: 2015 Submissions | Tagged: 36 hours, prompts, Shijia Zheng, Sledgehammer, writing contest | Leave a comment »

“A Plethora of Exes” by Anne MacLeod

Posted on July 29, 2015 by writer

A Plethora of Exes

Anne MacLeod

“This looks interesting. Let’s try it.” I am standing in front of a gaudily painted door, all peace symbols and psychedelic colors. It resembles something left over from the 60’s.

Janice leaves off her window-shopping and comes over to see what I am talking about. Janice is my best friend, the one who’s been there for me no matter what.

“The Bargain Bin. Isn’t that the discount store that was supposed to have closed?’ Hey. There’s a sign in the window. Let’s check it out.” Janice marches to the window. Janice always marches. Never walks. Maybe I do too. It must be a result of the training. After all, we’re both ex-military.

Janice reads the sign and looks at me. “I guess it’s reopened, but with a twist. They are still a bargain store but they’ve added a new dimension. They have a coffee shop- how trendy- and have karaoke every afternoon from two to four.”

I look at my watch. “It’s almost three. But let’s not go in.”

“I know what’s bothering you. It’s the karaoke. But you can’t avoid it the rest of your life. I’ve managed to accept it.”

I knew what she is talking about. We are exes, she and I. Our ex-husbands were the best of friends. It wasn’t such a surprising friendship. They both drank a lot. They were both womanizers. And they were both musicians although, in my opinion, not very good ones. When they tried to make it big, they fell on their faces and they took it out on us. John, Janice’s husband, wasn’t quite as bad as George, George being my ex-husband and the ex-love of my life. John was a bit of a follower and George had no difficulty leading him wrong.

So, why is karaoke a dirty word in my book? Well, when George and John couldn’t play professionally, they decided to go from one drinking establishment to another, imbibing a little too willingly and singing karaoke. How many nights had Janice and I watched those two idiots trying to sing, getting drunker and drunker and knowing what was going to happen later. George would turn on the charm for other people but, when he got me alone, he was anything but charming.

But it had been three years, after all. I have already chalked up a list of ex-boyfriends. I had to make them exes for their safety. George still keeps tabs on me and will threaten anyone who dates me. And his threats aren’t anything to take lightly. George is a big brute of a man. He doesn’t want me but he doesn’t want anyone else to want me either.

“Hey, stop your wool gathering. Are we going it or not? We need some fun in our lives.” Janice has that pleading look that is hard to resist.

“Okay’ Okay. Maybe we’ll be lucky and no one will be singing. Usually the singing is atrocious.”

“Yah. Let’s try our luck.” Laughing, Janice leads the way to the door.

But our luck doesn’t hold.

As we enter, we are assaulted by the smell of stale food, musty clothes and the miasma of sweat emanating from the crowd of people fighting their way to get to the bargain bins and, like kamikazes, destroy them. But, worst of all is the noise filling the entire space, echoing and re-echoing throughout the whole building-the noise of the shoppers, backed up by some of the most appalling music imaginable.

“Where is that music – or that poor excuse for music- coming from?” I look around but am unable to find the source of the din.

“Look up,” says Janice.

I follow her gaze and, there, on the balcony of this warehouse- like space, is a man, standing with a microphone in his hand, belting out a song in his off-key voice. I guess he thinks that the louder he sings, the better he will sound. He is wrong.

Janice grabs my arm and we push our way farther into the store, trying to avoid being crushed or having our eyes poked out by the frantic shoppers who look as if they have never seen a bargain before. Janice drags me, literally, toward the coffee shop but, when we get there, we find a long line of impatient people trying to keep their places against the push and pull of the serious, and seriously disturbed, shoppers.

“Can we get out of here?” I ask but my words are drowned in the rising and falling tide of noise, which has become almost overwhelming.

“Let’s wait a bit,” says Janice. “There are seats here. I don’t think I’m up to fighting my way through that mob again so soon.”

I sit down with relief. I am doubly relieved that the music has stopped and the noise is not nearly as exasperating.

Too soon, a new voice takes up the hideous music. I recognize the tune, one by The Ex, a punk-rock band from the Netherlands and a favourite of my ex’s. I recognize that voice too. It is the aging, but still easily identifiable, voice of no other than George, my long-gone but not missed, ex.

We are just below the balcony rail and I try to cover my face with my hair so that George won’t recognize me. “Quick! Hide!” I lean over and whisper to Janice, “It’s George. Don’t let him see you.”

“Yah, I noticed. But you can’t hide from him forever.”

“ I can try.”

But my attempt fails. Just at that moment, George looks down and stops singing. “Hey, is that you, Marsha? Sure, it’s you. I’d recognize that hair anywhere.” I might hide my face but my flaming red hair is hard to disguise. George turns again to the microphone and takes it off its stand, tangling himself up in serpentine array of wires that connect it to the music equipment. “I’d like to dedicate this song to my wife, Marsha, who’s here with us today.”

I am angry at last. I yell as loud as I can. “I am not your wife. We’ve been divorced for three years.”

I can see, even from this distance, the vein throbbing in his forehead, the throbbing that means big trouble for me. He moves to the balcony rail and leans over it, the better to have me hear him. “You are my wife as long as I want you to be. You won’t be free as long as we both are alive.

Everyone has become embarrassingly silent, whether from shock or enjoyment of the scene George and I are creating. Janice is trying to talk to me but I tune her out. She is pulling at my arm but I shrug her off. There are only two people in the world, George and I.

CRACK. The heavy weight of George and his anger has broken the railing. George tries to jump back but too late. The railing falls with a bang right in front of me, spilling George, still holding the mike, onto the floor. The music equipment quickly follows. It lands with a powerful force on top of him.

Someone in the crowd rushes to help him but, alas, it is too late. George is dead, buried beneath his beloved music. I just sit there stunned. Then the realization comes to me and I have to hide my face so no one can see my smile. My ex- husband has become an ex-person and I, at long last, am free, an ex in every sense of the word.

Filed under: 2015 Submissions | Tagged: 36 hours, Anne MacLeod, prompts, Sledgehammer, writing contest | Leave a comment »

Mini Sledgehammer May 2015

Posted on May 25, 2015 by writer

Congratulations to Elizabeth Grace Martin, a new Sledgehammerer who wrote a winning story on her first try!

***

Character: Ice cream vendor

Action: Recycling

Setting: In the rain

Prop: Smoke

***

Burnt Ice Cream

by Elizabeth Grace Martin

Maven got a rush from the flick of the lighter. The burn of the cigarette down her lungs felt like the appropriate amount of unhealthy. Fuck healthy. She liked smoke and ice cream. She even dyed her hair to add a swirl of gray to damage her streak of brunette.

After being recycled in the foster care system, she fated herself into a runaway. That’s when the gray came—a nod to the wisdom she decided she was due—not the wisdom she’s earned.

The smoke came before the streets. Fire was home. Maven didn’t much like the term “arsonist.” She preferred creator. She burned ugly away. It gave her control over something—at least that’s what her therapist claimed. Fuck him.

She didn’t see him more than once. Maven didn’t see anyone more than once. Judgment stays at bay when you don’t let people know you. Only she needed to know her.

So she hopped trains and claimed the title explorer. She slept in barns with livestock and thought herself a farmer. She was neither. Maven was a homeless runaway, but a good marketer. But even runaways need a break; even runaways need an identity.

The train Maven was currently riding stopped for fuel or to load or unload. Fuck if she knew. But the day was bright, sweat grouped at the bottom of her spine.

“Ice cream,” she said to no one. No one was her favorite audience. The jump from the train car to the red rocks below sent a shock up her legs—the kind that reminds you you’re still alive. Pain, fleeting but passionate.

Maven lit her first cigarette of the day and walked along the tracks until the town came into view. She’d never been to Arizona before, but it felt like every other place. She lit another cigarette as soon as she stomped her first one out on the metal track.

The tracks went straight and she curved to the left. The siren song of the ice cream truck was calling her. It sounded like home.

On the first main street she crossed, she pick-pocketed an empty-faced stranger. The siren was getting closer.

“Banana split,” Maven called to the ice cream vendor.

A man with naturally gray hair and newsboy cap popped his head out of the freezer and into her view.

“Hi there, Miss. How are you?”

“Banana split,” Maven repeated, ignoring the vendor’s inquiry.

“Talkative aren’t you?”

“Not to strangers.”

“How do you ‘pect to make friends?”

“What?” her attitude was showing through. This was already the longest conversation Maven had had in months. “Fuck man, you got a banana split or not?”

“Fresh out. Fudgicle?”

“Whatever.”

“It’s on the house,” he said, eyeing Maven’s unwashed hair and wrinkled clothes.

“Take care.”

She wanted to be snotty. She wanted to ruin him with words. But Maven bit her tongue and accepted the Fudgicle before it melted under the Arizona sun.

She nodded at him. He smiled, toothy. It was the best he was going to get from a runaway punk and they both knew it. Maven couldn’t shake the interaction. No one is nice to her. She gives no one a reason to. She felt uneasy about it. She followed the ice cream vendor that day, touring the city in his shadows.

When the sun dunked into the night, he parked the truck and Maven kept watching it. She flicked her lighter in front of her. Up and down, the flame teased her, called her like the siren song of ice cream trucks.

She answered.

The fire started to burn slowly. Deliberately. The tires melted into puddles and the ice cream would soon do the same. She watched the damage long enough to feel satisfied. The smoke pillowed the sky into more darkness and she walked away, without remorse, into the rain.

The fire won again.

***

Elizabeth can often be found talking to her dog like he’s a real human boy, being inspired by TED Talks, and creating an ever-growing travel wish list. Her newest dream is to live in a tiny house mansion. Her longest dream is to be a best-selling author. She’s working on one of those at: www.elizabethgracemartin.com.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Elizabeth Grace Martin, fiction, ice cream, Mini Sledgehammer, Portland, short story, writing contest | Leave a comment »

Mini Sledgehammer April 2015

Posted on April 20, 2015 by writer

Julia Himmelstein is back with another amazing story!

***

Character: The cowgirl
Action: Watching British television
Setting: the factory
Prop: A milk jug

***

Untitled

by Julia Himmelstein

It had been a while since the cowgirl had been around. He had been watching for her, shyly, spending lapses of evenings by the kitchen sink, washing the same four dishes, while peering out the window. It wasn’t really her looks that got to him, just the fact that she was so incredibly out of place. The first time, he had wondered if this was a mistaken Halloween costume, a drunken party guest in the wrong part of town. Their eyes had met as he sat on his front stoop, tongue-tied. The fringes on her leather vest rustled in the light breeze, and she made a funny clicking noise with her boots, as though commanding an invisible horse. Long after she was gone, he thought he could hear the click-clack of her boots on the pavement.

They saw each other every few nights after that, she always wearing gingham and leather, and he always staring, dumbfounded. “Just say something to her, man,” he muttered to himself, channeling one of his high school buddies that surely would have had the balls to talk to her, and probably say something incredibly rude. But those friends were long gone, off to work in the factories that made pointless gadgets for white folks. It was just him now, him and his four dishes and the cat Theo. He couldn’t remember the last time he had talked to a human, let alone see one in real life. He used to have video chats with his sister, but that was before the internet cut out. Now when he wanted to see people he popped in one of the British Television discs that he had found in a closet when he first moved in.

He found himself dreaming about her at night. In his dreams, she was close enough that he could see her freckles, and smell her breath. It smelled funny, like something old. Sometimes she would even smile.

He hadn’t always been such a loner. He too, had tried the factory life, first for a manufacturer of milk jugs and then for a tech company. He grew listless and bored, and had enough near misses with large machinery that he was let go. With a sigh, he moved to the empty country, finding an abandoned trailer on a field to call home.

The cowgirl usually walked past around dusk. There was something about the way she looked, like a hungry child, that made him feel protective and tentative at the same time. She always went the same direction, and always looked at him, brief and hard, before leaving.

He started to worry when he hadn’t seen her in a week. He wondered if she had met someone that actually spoke to her. Maybe she even found a horse. Did she have a home, or a family? What did her voice sound like?

He awoke late one night to hear the click-clack of her boots. As if in a dream, he walked through the dark trailer and stepped outside into the moonlight, knowing she would be there. She stared at him with her usual look. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

***

Julia Himmelstein lives in Portland, Oregon, where she teaches, smiles, listens, and wonders. She delights in hugs from friends, children’s smiles, and fresh baked cookies (or any food, really).

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Blackbird Wine, fiction, free, Julia Himmelstein, Mini Sledgehammer, Portland, prizes, writing contest | Leave a comment »

Mini Sledgehammer March 2015

Posted on March 13, 2015 by writer

Congratulations to Denise Coderre, whose story earned her a free book and bottle of wine!

***

Character: The person next to you
Action: Hail Mary
Setting: Somewhere in cyberspace
Prop: Mask

***

Nature Trip

by Denise Coderre

“Hey man, where are we?”

“I don’t know about you, but I think I’m somewhere in cyberspace. How big a dose did you say this was?”

“I didn’t, and I’m gonna keep it that way. You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah, thanks. I’m glad we’re here together. It’s a real chance to get to know you on a different level – without the masks we sometimes wear. I’ve known you all your life, mi hijo, but really, how well do we know each other?”

“I know what you mean. All my life, I’m the person next to you, living, playing and eating with you, sometimes crying with you, laughing with you…I think I know you pretty well. But who knows? How about you tell me about yourself? I’ll see if you get it right.”

“Hah! What is this? I don’t see any confessional boxes around, even if I were Catholic.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not as if I’m going to assign you any Hail Marys – even if I were a priest.

“This is supposed to be a beautiful experience. I think the best way we get to know each other, or rather, keep knowing each other, is just to be ourselves. Completely in the moment. There aren’t any roles we need to play. The roles are all in the past. Now, we’re just two people.”

“Yes, two peoples. And lots of bugs! Man, cyber bugs are huge! What if they eat us, and no one finds us for two years, and then we’re just a pile of bones?”

“Hello…take off the mask. You’re using bugs as an excuse to not talk about what’s important.”

“But this is me. I’m not a great philosopher. I’m just a weirdo who enjoys the minutiae, the bugs, the dirt. Look at the dirt! It’s red. Did I ever tell you about the science teacher who told me about the meaning of red dirt? It means were here. We got to where we’re going. We’ve arrived!”

“And there’s no place else I’d rather be than right here next to you. I sure do love you, whoever you are. I may not know you, but I know I love you. Thanks for being here with me.”

“Thanks for asking me. I love you too, more than you’ll ever know.”

***

Denise Coderre, originally from California, is a born-again Oregonian since 1990. She is an attorney specializing in retirement plans, insurance and related tax laws. In her spare time, she enjoys playing fierce Scrabble competitions against her fiancé, quiet evenings watching Dr. John McWhorter lectures on DVD, and studying foreign languages to mingle with locals around the world. She cherishes her good fortune to experience first-hand the enduring, ever-evolving mother-son bond.

Filed under: Mini Sledgehammers | Tagged: Blackbird Wine, cyberspace, Denise Coderre, short story, Sledgehammer, writing contest | Leave a comment »

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