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Mini Sledgehammer February 2015

Another great turnout! Thanks for the support, 2015 writers!

***SH Feb 2015

Character: The least respected person
Action: Acting
Setting: The farm
Prop: Chandelier

***

The Old Chandelier

by Alyssa Shelton

I

Some of his first memories were just twinklings; iridescent, tiny movements of light dancing off of and with one another to some music that couldn’t actually be heard.

He often wondered if his mother had left the bassinet in the foyer with the fore thinking that he would be entertained by the subtle moving shadows cast on the wall by the chandelier in the entryway of their rundown old house.

More likely, however, was that she simply set him down as quickly as she could after returning home from whatever monotonous chore or errand she’d just stumbled through.

He also wondered if those bits of light had played any role in his growing desire to become the world’s greatest actor.

He could see it all so clearly: the common farm boy turned movie star! How he would wow and dazzle, shock and surprise on the golden screen. Finally, the other boys would envy him and wish they had been kinder all those years in school. “Look at him now!” they would say as he moved weightlessly across the stages of Hollywood and Broadway. The girls would regret mocking him and sending him those humiliating fake love letters, not that he had wanted them anyway…

“Eugene! Get your sorry ass downstairs and get to herding, sonofa…”

He was ripped from yet another daydream, forced back to the pathetic reality of life on a sheep farm. While he craved glamour, production, and scripts he was drowning in wool, shit, and dust.

He made his way toward the dilapidated staircase, running his hands along the cracked and fading wallpaper with fat baby angels sitting atop yellowed clouds. His mother called them cherubs, and his father asked her why the hell she couldn’t just call them what they were: fat baby angels.

As he began to descend down the steps, he paused midway to admire the one remnant of a once impressive and sprawling plantation; his great grandfather’s chandelier. Eugene was always taken by its out of place elegance, and his mind began to wander again as it was wont to do…

“Why don’t you just take your drunk ass out of this here house and let us be!”

Slap!

The memories always ended with that terrible sound that they’d all grown so accustomed to.

“Damnit Eugene, quit starin’ at that damned light and get outside!” He quickly ran down the stairs and out to the pasture.

II

Once his work was done, he retreated to the old barn. Here he could be himself: the famed Gene! The most highly sought after actor in the whole country. And from such humble beginnings!

Not long now and his neighbor and friend, Johnny, would join him in the barn. Together they would continue writing and rehearsing their next play, The Farmer’s Wife, the coming-of-age tale of a misunderstood gal on her way to Hollywood. They could both identify.

Johnny came and they wrote, laughed, argued and fucked. They just got to thinking it might be time to call it a night when the barn door slammed open and Eugene’s father burst inside, looking horrified but not surprised.

The next sequence of events would remain a blur to all who tried to recall it. Johnny took off out the back of the barn naked.

Boom. Boom. Two shotgun shots that hit nothing but the balmy summer air. In the meantime, Eugene’s father had caught him by the back of the neck and began to drag him toward the house.

Nearly at the doorstep, Eugene broke free by throwing a wild punch in his father’s face. He made it just into the foyer as another boom! canceled out all other sounds.

As he crumpled to the floor amidst his mother’s and sister’s screams, his mind wandered back to those early twinkling memories. As the blood left his body and his breathing slowed, he once again watched the lights dance along the ceiling and the walls.

© 2015 Alyssa Shelton

***

Alyssa

Alyssa Shelton co-owns a branding and web design agency called Roger That in Portland, OR. When she’s not copywriting for her clients you can find her attempting recipes that never turn out quite right.

Mini Sledgehammer January 2015

What a great night! We had a bout a dozen writers come out for the first Mini Sledgehammer of the year. Congratulations to Jeremy Da Rosa!Sledgehammer 1.15

***

Character: SIRI
Action: Exercising
Setting: January, 1915
Prop: Salt

***

Milk Starring Sean Penn

by Jeremy Da Rosa

It was the largest glass of milk I had ever seen. I’m no stranger to milk (I’ve got most varieties memorized), but this was the biggest glass I’d seen. 32oz at least. Next to it the sugar shaker on the table made the sugar shaker look like a salt shaker.

The waitress brought me a straw, which was kind but unnecessary.
“I’m pretty good with milk,” I said.

“Siri,” I asked, “What is the Guinness World Record for largest quantity of milk drank in one sitting?”

Siri didn’t know. I stood up in the brown diner. There was a belt of square windows strung around its waist and a fence of bushes between the windows and the street. A marathon was breathing heavily by, and I was convicted about my lack of exercise. I returned to my milk.

A search through the bowels of the internet revealed the milk drinking record was two cows past a full herd: a man named Samuel Scott Walker held the record with 2.5 gallons of whole milk drank in one sitting. The asterisk next to the stat showed a sitting was considered 45 minutes.

This was beyond me–no matter how much I loved the thick, natural soy-based alternatives. I needed to train, and to train, I needed to talk to the best.

Samuel Scott Walker, according to classmates.com, was born on Jan. 30, 1915, in Tillamook, Oregon, which made sense–where else would the world’s best milk drinker be born other than the producer of the nation’s best dairy products?
But 1915, that’s one hundred years ago! The odds that this proud man still walked among us were thinner that a glass of nonfat.

© 2015 Jeremy Da Rosa

***

Jeremy Da RosaJeremy Da Rosa is a writer and educator who lives in Portland. He was born in Salinas, California, where lettuce comes from.

Mini Sledgehammer December 2014

Prompts:
Character: The woman with the beehive hairdo
Action: Snapping a photo
Setting: The docks
Prop: A DVD box set of Murder She Wrote

***

Untitled

by Julia Himmelstein

Author’s Note: Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

There wasn’t much that Tim was scared of that night. He had done the deed already, and was just looking for the proper place to dispose of the weapon. He drove far away from the rink, north along the edge of the Willamette River. He strolled along the docks, hardly minding the debris: a condom wrapper, some soggy pink insulation, and Murder she Wrote DVD’s strewn along the edge of the water. He walked along, absentmindedly swinging the bat from side to side, and thought about his fiancé.

She never expected for Tim to be the man in her life. That is to say, she never expected to stay with him. In the scenarios of the future that she had built in her mind, they would be together 3, 4 months tops, and he would slide into the ether as she became well known, a national champion, an Olympic star. By the time she was on the magazine covers, Tim would be nowhere nearby.

They met at a local bar, she with her off-the-shoulder shirt and loud-mouthed friends, snapping photos and making it clear to anyone nearby that she was having the time of her life. He spent most of the evening in a dark corner, playing darts and casually stealing glances. She noticed, of course.  She didn’t acknowledge him, but slid her number over on a cocktail napkin after last call, like she had seen in the movies once. A week later, he called.

He was tall and strong, and had a way of making her feel safe. Feminine was never a word she used to describe herself, but when she was snuggled up in Tim’s large bear-like arms, she felt exactly that. Like she could float away, and it was his embrace that would hold her down.

Skating was something she had always done. Since she was a young girl, it was the only thing she truly loved. There was something about the way she felt when she was spinning athletically through the air: lutzes, sow cows, axels. Everything else- the gliding, the crossovers, the spins- they were all just in-between, time-fillers before the rush of the next awesome move.

She couldn’t pick the moment when they became a team. She was staunchly independent, always had been. And yet, Tim always seemed to be there. His cheeks flushed just as hard as hers when she nailed her first triple lutz. After a while, she let herself believe that he would really be there for her.

Tim picked up his pace, and walked to the edge of the dock. This is for you, Julie, he thought. He threw the bat as far as he could, and watched it splash into the water. He was a good man.

Francine’s coach was almost witness to the crime. She was outside the rink, warming up the car for Francine. Her beehive hairdo made it impossible for her to put on a hat, and she shivered in the wet cold evening. She couldn’t wait to get home and snuggle up with her box set of Murder She Wrote DVD’s. And yet, Francine didn’t come out. She waited ten minutes at least before walking back in, and immediately heard the screams. Francine would never skate again.

© 2014 Julia Himmelstein

Mini Sledgehammer November 2014

What better way to spend a fall evening than sipping wine and writing? 1381101_52402725

Thanks to everyone who came out for this month’s Mini Sledgehammer, and congratulations to Joshua Force for taking home the prizes!

Prompts:
Character: A candidate
Action: To legalize
Setting: An empty office
Phrase: After the war

***

Untitled

By Joshua Force

after the warning shot got pushed past us in the form of a opinion poll we probably should have thought twice about renting the extra office space. even 16 feet square is too much when your budget shrivels up on lack of fund raising and funds on lack of faith as the the general public prematurely picks their pony and that other pony gets stronger. that can feel about it – watching as your chances are lapped. lapped out as if a giant tongue absorbed a long line of sugar cubes and the sweetness that could have been yours. was the polling firm reputable I wondered staring at a wall of pre-paid posters quilting over the wall in perfect repetition and image – broken only in their haphazard overlapping as though the enormous long wall they blanketed had shrunk them piling as tiles onto one another. “Yes on 7” “es on 7” “Yes on “ “s on 7” and occasionally an upside down one too. somehow so garishly fitting or is it unfitting that our amateur public image mimicked an ugly wall that needed care and received rushed neglect. gah! is there a way out of this useless box? trapped in the mirrored failure of assailed idea, riding the grumpy gallop towards a finish line you’d rather avoid completely if front of a crowd that hates you or at best is disengaged from the possibility of you. you an idea. you an intangible candidate. the potential of a sparkling fix. the dwindling futures of our indigenous proposal a pre-lost race. out come the opinion polls and you’re lapped up like a pool of water. you’re lapped up until the trough is dry withering dry. and there I was in the middle of the fight and yet entirely after the war. all the thrashing and kicking and pushing would have to be ceremonial now. I’d need more runs around my precincts with a volunteering flyers and flyer-ers still clutching the paper like the hope could still win with the barest chance the power of the ghostly candidate was hidden beneath even our own ability to see. sweeping away the other debris from the porch stairs and the door handles and perches created around mailboxes in a vaporous wave of portended defeat as even the lapping occurred still trapped in useless motions of fumbling in the worst pantomime looking in the mouths of the grandstand voters in their glowing homesteads and revival farmhouses with saccharine pleading to be the crop. to spur on the candidate. the animal the One chance this generation to make legal the question of 7. it is after all legal elsewhere with winning results for not only those who bet on it but also and actually everyone. we can all win legalize horse racing in Clindale county! a yes vote send revenue to the schools! the failing schools!!! it’s an exhaustion now because the polls came out and the polls are too far ahead and now there is no way we can catch up to the polls. our candidate is a fading apparition a non-animal who will be blown away like acrid smoke.

© 2014 Joshua Force

Mini Sledgehammer October 2014: “Uncles and Buicks”

Thank you to Daniel and John, who continue to host the Portland Mini Sledgehammers at Blackbird Wine. This month’s winner was Kris Lovesey–congratulations!

Prompts:
Character: The recently departed
Action: Riding Bikes
Setting: By the train tracks
Prop: Pillow case

***

Uncles and Buicks

By Kris Lovesey Kris Lovesey smile shot

Biking across Jacksonville is a great excuse to look like shit.  Shirt starched with sweat.  I look like shit- I smell like a rainbow of balls feet, farts and pits—And I feel great.

If I rode in the beautifully temp. regulated car with my parents I would smell like coffee and stress but I would much rather smell like shit- and acrid eye burning garlic asparagus piss.

It suits me.  It’s my cologne.  My toilet water.  Drier sheets- moth balls.

My uncle was a weird one.  I remember snippets of him laced through my childhood.  He was/is much older than my dad.  He joined the Airforce- got out and flew for Arab families who bought him Rolexes.  He had scattered divorces and kids who don’t speak with the rest of the family.

I remember the gun in his bedside table drawer in Sarasota.  In St. Augustine we visited him in a house trailer.  My brother and I were coaxed outside to collect pine cones.  We were promised a quarter each.

My aunt told me, she was drunk on vodka, he would drown cat babies instead of spaying them.
We were on our way to Sam’s Club.  She pointed to a railway bridge and said he would take the whole litter stuffed in a Goodwill Pillow case- a couple of zip ties, a brick and- out the Buick window.

Our family moved around and these sporadic encounters with family formed all my impressions of the South.

I arrive at church late.  The preacher is going on and on about:  Our Recently Departed.

My uncle Bobby.  They guy lived more in my dreams than in my life… but he’s family and that’s how  my family functions.

-seperate
-Christmas Cards
-Birthday Phone Calls
-The Thanks Giving tradition of fruit cake making- that only lasted for three years.

I was so proud of myself for knowing pine cones were not in fact alligator eggs.  But Hey-
What the fuck did a California boy know about alligators.
They live in Florida- it takes a 45 shot in a quarter sized spot behind their skull to kill one.
You have to pick up their eggs and burn them before they hatch.
You have to kill the kittens.

We are in the dirty South.
This is where I’m from.

This is what I keep on leaving behind me like a dead uncle Bobby.

© 2014 Kris Lovesey

***

Born to a father from South Carolina and a mother from a dairy farm in England.  Growing up around the nicest people and being spoiled on the world’s best chocolates and sweets did as much for Kris’s deep optimism as growing up in divided Germany helped to form a quirky outlook on life.  Kris’s story begins as an American Air force brat surrounded by giant military trucks and transporters, fleets of F-16s and other jets, and the calm German village.

After moving around a lot and finishing an arts degree at Bowling Green State University Kris continued moving with stays in: New Zealand, South Korea, Japan, as well as Southern California, Florida, and the Pacific North West.  Portland is where this author currently resides  while writing fiction and non-fiction.  Kris floats between cultures, countries, and scattered friends and family- seemingly sucking nectar to feed and indulge the curiosity driving this boheme-cosmopolitan.

Lightheartedness is seen in everything Kris.  The fictional stories weave our world with colorful threads- beautiful and crass.  Narratives drag us all the places one never knows to look for on a map or in our imaginations.  The characters will remind you of fantastic qualities of man which surround us.  Non-fiction works by Kris are brash “how to” get what you want out of life guides.  These deal with traveling and living abroad and the advantages and hurdles.  The life experiences salt and pepper and offer a new pair of glasses to view the world.

Kris draws literary inspiration from the wonderful worlds of Roald Dahl and Haruki Murakami, and peacefulness/spiritual tones of Hermann Hesse and Patrick Suskind.  This makes a down to earth and honest author who is a pleasure to read.  Pick up Kris’s books right now and meet the characters and real life people to lighten up your day.