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Mini Sledgehammer December 2013: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

Posted on November 21, 2013 by writer

It’s the time of year for thinking about, well, time. This month’s prompts speak to that. Congratulations to this month’s winner, Daniel Granias, who wrote in memory of Elissa Nelson.

Character: Timekeeper

Action: Pencil it in

Setting: Calendar sales rack

Phrase: Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana

***

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Dedicated to Elissa Nelson, beloved friend and former Mini Sledgehammer facilitator, who first introduced me to the series.

In my dreams, my father rides on the back of a whooping crane. It flies through an amber sunset, its neck undulating in a long S. Together they splash and patter in the high tide while the rhino burrows its great iron horn in the glittering sand searching for nematodes. The crane takes my father’s belt in its long beak and throws him into the dusty lavender thickets, where he rolls across their dense beds under the cattail reeds that tower eight stories high. The king of the nematodes carries an hourglass with three bulbs; one for red sand, one for yellow, and one for green. When he turns the glass, the sky turns grey and my father and I are sitting in a doctor’s office, waiting for the nematode secretary to call our name.

“Bastille! Bastille! I’ve been calling you for the past century! Where have you been? You’ve missed your bicentennial treatment again, now we must pencil you in for the next millennium, and we’re booked through Julaugustary!”

The day-by-day calendar on the desk curls its pages into lips that say, “Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana!”

With a flourish, my father throws on a lime green doctor’s coat and lifts me in its folds. He takes me to the bookshop he owned, to the corner where my mother quilted the pillows and blankets in so many shades of violet, plum, and indigo.

It is there I wake, beneath the cherry-cedar rocking chair where he’d take me in his lap and read me tales of places near and far, while I stared at the pictures of birds and mammals on the calendars we sold on the rack by the register. The pillows still smell and feel like my mother’s bosom; it was so long ago I fit in the linen nest of her apron before her cancer took hold for the year that followed, each day feeling like a month, each visitation hour like a second.

Now I’ll sort and stack the pillows, activate the register, and flip the paper clock in the window back and unlock the doors as parents and children visit our rows of pop-ups, pictures, and puppets, and I’ll assume my place in the cherry-cedar rocking chair and read the next tale to this afternoon’s visitors just as my mother and father did.

©2013 Daniel Granias

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Mini Sledgehammer: Burning Man 2013

Posted on October 21, 2013 by writer

For the first time ever, Sledgehammer had a presence at Burning Man! To see a write-up on the event, click here. Congratulations to Fran Hewison, who took home the golden sledgehammer, and to Alexis Martin-Vegue and Suze Campagna, aka Scout, who both took home writing-quill pendants as prizes. Here are their stories.

Prompts:
Jane Austen clones
burlesque

***

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By Fran Hewison

It is a truth universally acknowledged  that the larger a lady is in sense and sensibility land, the more husbands she can hope to attract. For a large woman is always in need of several undersized men to satisfy her needs.

Yes, sadly all the men in this society are born with one small, and I use the word advisedly, yet telling defect. Although the yare all six feet tall or more, the yare possessed of a penis roughly the size of your common or garden matchbox.

Thus those females of greater dimensions are deemed to need more men to satisfy them. Smaller women, however, are judged to be less in need of stimulation and must therefore make do with onelly one or two husbands.

This society may seem strange to us, as a civilized, patriarchal world. Indeed, sense and sensibility land is a result of a failed  20th century social experiment which aimed to promote the idea of society described in Jane Austin’s novels by forcing randomly selected test subjects to endure endless reruns of the film pride and prejudice, whilst they were under the influence of McDonalds and LSD. The idea was that a group of overly compliant women would develop as a result, for the benefit and enjoyment of men, who were beginning to get dissatisfied with all the uppity feminists cluttering the place up.

Sadly, something somewhere must have gone terribly wrong. Instead of the desired outcome, the experiment  produced  a group of plus-sized, overly fertile and entitled women and weak, underequipped men. Observers speculate that this may be due to secret gene therapy carried out on the subjects, as well as the extremely kinky burlesque shows which both male and female participants had to watch.

The result was sense and sensibility land, a place where proper values are turned on their head. As a moral, upstanding anthropologist, I can only condemn such goings-on.

However, one  good thing came from this terrible, terrible mistake. Our own society abandoned its dangerous slide towards female empowerment, and once again embraced the inequality of the sexes, not to mention the status of women as objects who only achieve validation through marriage.

But why bother telling you, my gentle readers, of such horrible things? Because I, the intrepid Dayle Darcy, am about to undertake a voyage to this distant, dangerous place. Despite the fact that I feel nothing but disdain for the women of the society, and to some extent the men,  I admit to a certain curiousity about these people and their ways. Especially the intriguing Eliza, head of the family with whom I shall stay.

But enough – here I must break off, as my transport is now arrived. I shall write further of this matter when I am safely installed within the bosom of my host family, the Bennets.

© 2013 Fran Hewison

***

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By Alexis Martin-Vegue

It is not quite as it appears when you look out on this oppressive landscape. It looks like 19th century England, but what I know now is that it’s  just a projection implanted in my brain by the beings of this planet. How I ended up here is a story too long to tell. It’s irrelevant now anyway. What is relevant is the steps I’ve made towards my escape.

I’m contained here by a force field encapsulating the planet. I know it’s lowered once ever y 36 hours to let trash ships leave its atmosphere. If I am able to further the rocky alliance I’ve made with one of the trash barge captains, I may garner a ride for my pod in the barge’s trash bay.

The other thing I’ve done is attempt to blend in. Luckily, I bear enough resemblance to Jane Austin that it seems to be working. All of the labor on this faceade(??) planet is done by clones of Jane Austin. How or why that came to be I don’t know. The native residents of this place remain concealed to me. I stumble around in my bustle and try to keep a tenuous grip on my sanity.

I woke this morning screaming again, realizing the desperateness of my situation. The only things keeping my spirit are focus on my plan to escape and memories of my life before this. I get a grip on my outburst and turn my focus once again to the plan, knowing today is the day.

I dress in my drabbest dress and most comfortable shoes. Very unlike some of the ornate Victorian things I have been donning. I hope to slip into the garage housing my bod unnoticed. It’s Friday and all of the clones will be at the theater preparing for the burlesque show they perform each week, broadcasted to who knows where for the natives to watch.

I sneak out of my townhouse through the alley door and head down to the industrial district where I know my pod is being kept. My footsteps sound so real and hollow echoing on what I know isn’t  really a cobbled street. I reach the garage unwatched and pay my bribe to the Jane who lets me enter. She helps me push the pod off the loading dock into the trash bin. I await my friendly captain to pick me up. It smells musty in my pod from what I can only estimate as a year of storage.

Finally, after a white knuckled half hour of waiting, the barge rolls in. The trash and I are loaded into the ship, the ship’s skeleton crew pretends not to notice me inside the pod, as promised by my friend Jane. I am grateful. The ship has a few more stops, the new are headed up.

I watch London shrink away beneath me, hoping I’ll never see it again. W  break out of the atmosphere and my vision is flooded with relief of  blackness. My pod and I are expelled from the barge’s bowels and as I float into space I drift into sleep, hoping to dream of my next adventure.

© 2013 Alexis Martin-Vegue

***

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By Suze Campagna, aka Scout

I have visited many planets in my lifetime and met many interesting  beings, and experienced many wonderments, oddities, amazements. But nothing as wonderful, odd or amazing as the time I crash landed on the Planet Licklepish.

I was on my way to my home planet when my fuel tank failed to tell me it was near empty. I was searching for a place to stop when I accidentally caught the strong gravitational pull of the planet.

Luckily, I landed in a bed of soft, green sand. As I set out to seek help I saw the landscape was covered with florescent pink, green and orange flowers.

As I walked through a field of flowers they started dancing with the beat of my steps, so I stopped to dance with them. I tried the funky chicken, they didn’t like that much. I tried a waltz, but flowers don’t make good waltz partners. I tried a celi dance I learned on the Planet Green. That was fun. Then when I tried a burlesque dance the flowers (? liked?) that.

As we got into it, I saw a bunch of women in full length dresses approaching quickly and angrily. As the y got closer, I noticed that though they were all different sizes, they all had pretty much the same face. The chubbiest one of them all came at me and yelled.

STOP! Don’t encourage them!

What? I asked. We were just having fun.

“When they cance too much they release a strange liquid.”

Just as she said that, the plants let out what sounded like a fart, and a liquid oozed out of their leaves. It was odd(?).

“Too late,” said a skinny one, who I realized had the face of an old Earth writer, Jane Austin.

The smell was familiar. As I put it to my nose, I knew instantly it was the fuel I needed. I explaned my predicament to the Jane Austin clones. All started dancing and helped me gather enough hfuel to get me home.

They also asked that I never reveal the coordinates of their planet. But  if I ever run out of fuel in that quadrant, I now know  where to go.

© 2013 Suze Campagna

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Sledgehammer at Burning Man

Posted on October 21, 2013 by writer
We’re very excited that Sledgehammer was represented at Burning Man this year. 2012 Individual Winner Courtney Sherwood attended the annual arts festival with golden sledgehammers as prizes for the first-ever Burning Man Mini-Sledgehammers. Here’s her report.

Image
***
Nothing at Burning Man ever goes quite as planned, and my attempt to bring two 36-minute Sledgehammer contests to the Nevada desert this year proved no exception. I made plans with organizers of two different camps to hold different competitions over the course of the week.
The first 1,000 or so events submitted to the official guide are included in print listed distributed to everyone in attendance, and organizers of the rest have to hope and pray that their events find an audience. Somehow, one of the contests made it to the guide and the other didn’t. It’s no coincidence, then, that dozens of people showed up for the first contest, and nobody made it to the second.
ImageThe official meet and greet for the first-ever Get Lit(erary) at Burning Man collaboration took place immediately before the Sledgehammer competition, so I had to run to get to the contest site on time, and when I arrived there were at least 40-50 people already waiting to go. Some had started writing without any direction from me, and one person spoke up to say that they had agreed to write about Jane Austin clones.
Rather than halt the action that was already under way, I decided to go with the flow. So I stepped to the microphone and asked everyone to take a quick break from writing while I introduced myself and explained how Sledgehammer works in the real world. I told everyone that they had 36 minutes to write a story that incorporated the prompt they had chosen together — Jane Austin clones — and two prompts of my own — burlesque and the phrase “mental floss.” Then I stepped back and turned on the timer.Image
When time ran out, I invited anybody who was interested  to step up and read. So many people raised their hands that I imposed a three-minute time limit. According to my notes, at least 19 people opted to share their stories, and plenty of other people wrote but did not read outloud.
Within 1-2 stories, it became clear that nobody had heard me say “mental floss.” Not a single story incorporated that phrase. So I judged according to these criteria:
1- use of the other two prompts.
2- beginning, middle and end.
3- originality (a few stories that seemed original at first came  to seem less original when other people stepped to the mic with very similar plots and phrasing)
4- audience reaction.
5- arbitrary caprice.
By the time everyone had read, we had been there for close to two hours, and we were running out of stage time — musicians were scheduled to perform in the space we occupied. There were so many entertaining and bizarre stories that I knew it would be impossible to go through my notes and give a completely fair and just ruling, so I quickly chose three people as winners who had scored well during the reading, but I also emphasized before the audience that I could not vouch for the fairness of my judgment, and that many, many people had told excellent stories.
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After we wrapped up the event, the manager of the stage —  the event was at the Lost Penguin Cafe — came up to tell me that we’d drawn one of the biggest crowds of the day, and said he’d loved to host Sledgehammer again next year. I thanked him for hosting, and promised to get there early and to be better prepared if we do it again.
***
Thanks for hosting it, Courtney and Lost Penguin Cafe! We look forward to seeing what comes up next year.

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Mini Sledgehammer October 2013: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese

Posted on October 17, 2013 by writer

This month’s Mini Sledgehammer writing prompts celebrate Ali McCart, who returned to her Metlakatla home after a lovely extended stay in her Portland home. They each are a take on something about her. (We explain how in parentheses below.)

And congratulations to this month’s winner, Tim Fritsch, who successfully incorporated the following four prompts into what the judges deemed the most successful story of the evening.

Character: A cat herder (Ali successfully manages a variety of people on a regular basis, and over her last week in Oregon, she really added to that as she facilitated components of two conventions.)

Setting:  In the doorway to a room for employees only (Ali straddles the line between her roles as leader and worker well.)

Prop:  A freezer full of salmon (Knowing a lot of people who fish, Ali has one of these in both Oregon and Alaska.)

Phrase:  Allow me to introduce… (Ali opened many an event during her short time in Oregon this year.)

***

Untitled

“Ginger…she’s over in the corner acting to snide, so self assured. She knows it’s about time. I’ll let her wait.”

The old man, who wore nothing but denim and patches, ushered me into the room.

“Don’t mind them, they will all come and see you when they’re ready. When you’re ready.”

“When is ready?” I ask.

“Eh, you know, I don’t even know,” the man said.

“Which one is your favorite?” I ask after a drawn out moment of silence passes between us. He lights a cigarette before he responds. The match smoke mingles with tobacco in the air. Ginger scowls at us.

The man gestures with his free hand up towards a tall bookcase. On the shelves, untold pages contained sacred writ on the rituals and ceremonies passed down through the ages. The ‘Dingle Mouse’, the ‘Laser Chase’—he had it all. Even atop those sanctimonious shelves, two yellow eyes burst with demon’s glow as they observe me.

“Allow me to introduce Patricia. She’s as old as my grandson in college and three times as smart,” the man said, chuckling. “Hopefully she’ll like you.”

“If not?” I ask, a smirk on my lips.

“Well, let me show you a glimpse of your future if she doesn’t like you,” the man said. He pulled his sleeve up, rolling it past his elbow.

I grimace.

Scars crisscross up and down the man’s arm. “If she doesn’t like you now, she will after she has a taste of you.”

I swallow loudly.

The man laughs and guides me down a hallway that opened to the right. “Down here will be your quarters,” he told me. With a knowing look, he added: “Be sure to keep your door closed at all times.” We turned to the left.

“Down this way,” the man said, “is where we let them roam.” The hall opened up into a large auditorium filled with a tangle of mazes, jungle gyms, and tunnels.

“Do we ever let them outside?” I ask.

The man smiled and shook his head. “There is a whole nother branch for that. We don’t specialize in the outdoorsy types here,” he said.

We took another right turn and kept going downwards. Another left and we were down some stairs. Two swinging doors with a sign ‘Employees Only’ emblazoned atop stood beside us.

“Wait here a moment,” the old man said.

“Sure,” I say, thinking nothing of it.

He vanishes through the doors soundlessly.

A minute, two…twenty. I lose track of time and curse myself for forgetting my phone in the car, somewhere miles away.

I hear a subtle crunch. It’s the strangest sound to hear in a hallway like this one.

Crunch…crunch…

I can’t stand it any more. I just barely push one of the doors. I see a sliver of the room beyond.

The man is standing in a poorly lit room. He’s standing in front of a large freezer. Icy steam is pouring down around him as he lowers his head and that awful crunch noise hisses through the air towards me.

Crunch…crunch…

I let out a gasp—the smallest of exhalations—and the man yells, his back still turned:

“I thought I told you to wait!”

The old man drops the frozen hunk of fish from his hands…his…paws? He turns to face me. Bright yellow slits for eyes, teeth razor sharp.

“Welcome to the herd,” he hisses at me.

I don’t even have a moment to think and he’s on me.

©2013 Tim Fritsch

Tim headshotA new Portland transplant, grown to perfection in Michigan and shipped via South Carolina, Tim is way into writing. Young adult fiction being one of his favorite genres, he recently produced his own YA novel during his spare time in the Southeast. Up in the Northwest, he hopes to find his niche and polish up a glorious third draft while also working as a part-time baker and server. He’s a Sag/Cap with his moon in Gemini and he only sort of knows what any of that means. His spirit animal might as well be a cat, but who knows, right?

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Eastern Oregon Word Round-Up Flash Sledgehammer 36-Word Writing Contest

Posted on October 17, 2013 by writer

Congratulations, Kristen Blanton, winner of a one-hour consultation with an Indigo editor!

Incorporating the prompt exhibit, Kristen wrote this piece of flash fiction (a week before :

Imagine an exhibit where people want to be, with lots of gadgets and tables to see. Sounds like the fun you’ll have at Wordstock, without me.

©2013 Kristen Blanton

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