Every true story ends in death – and so do many of the 101-word short story entries.

~ FIRST PLACE ~

Feel the Pain

The lecture – more of a pontification – could not have gone better. Dr. Lim was beaming when he announced the grant. In the 18 months that followed, though, his demeanor morphed from idealistic euphoria into rage and then into fear. Keal, his lead scientist, was not right. Lim knew this from the beginning, but thought his eccentricities were merely a manifestation of raw genius.

Cornering Keal, Lim made a futile attempt at reason: “We only want to increase the protein level in vegetables.”

Keal, dead eyed and without emotion, replied, “And that is what you achieved. Who cares if the lettuce screams?”

Patrick Cream, Monterey

~ SECOND PLACE ~

Needling the Damage Done

The needle slipped purposefully into his willing vein. It stung, but he wasn’t thinking about that. He dipped his head and waited for the reward – the thing that drove him to do this deed again and again.

He stared at his pliant arm. Thought about the war. The bloodshed. The guilt. The hunger for relief from crushing memories too vivid to shed. He needed it now, desperately. And then it came. Sweet deliverance.

“You’re done,” said the attendant. “Thanks for donating blood again today.” He nodded. Felt joy rising where despair had been.

“Least I can do,” he replied. Meant it.

Roy Verley, San Jose

~ THIRD PLACE ~ 

In the Time of the Mad King

Through the crowd, she saw him approach and braced herself. Here it comes, the slight brush of her breast, the shoulder squeeze, the drooling comment, hey my eyes are up here buddy. A line crossed, this time she pushed back. Heads turned toward her slap, then quickly turned away, what was that? Private whispers became public shrugs, #metoo became #justyou. What could be done, in our small town with our boorish mayor, tears and attorneys, let’s just move on and #bebest.

In November in a cardboard booth, she checked a box. And he was gone.

Mark Governor, Carmel

~ FOURTH PLACE ~

Now and Then

She found herself talking in used-tos. Used to be a dancer. Used to love singing. Used to dream. Twelve years, three kids and 17 calls to police from concerned neighbors changed the used-tos into have-tos and can’ts. Have to have dinner ready at exactly 6pm. Can’t wear short sleeves until the bruises fade. Have to keep it down so the neighbors don’t hear. Can’t wear that shade of lipstick cause whores wear that color.

One bullet and a two-month trial later and the have-tos reverted to used-tos. Did she ever love him? She used to.

Sue Braum, Salinas

~ RUNNERS UP ~

Freedom of Speech

“Is he here yet?”

Two men crouch on the broad roof of the adobe clubhouse.

“Nah. Just Tea Party types heading inside. And behind the chain-link fence protesters with their fricking taco truck.”

“Don’t be dissing the taco truck.”

“Awright. See those grannies hugging the fence, hollering, ‘Where’s the bloated bigot?’ And that young butch chick with the clipboard telling them to zip it. Some solidarity.”

“Hey, there’s our guy, the Arizona sheriff. He’s in.”

“So we’ve been protecting that ‘bloated bigot’ from tie-dye lefties armed with cardboard signs? Screw it. I’m going in – for the tacos.”

Nancy Harray, Monterey

Piece of the Action

Lenny grabbed his piece, slammed the door behind him and went out into the night. His mind was heavy. He had blown it last time. He needed just one shot, and he would feel free.

He ducked into the nearby alley. He could see the old man just past the stage door, listening to the racket beyond. He slipped inside. He clenched the piece. The hallway was deserted.

He climbed the steps and strode onstage. He placed the piece on the stand. The curtain rose. He lifted his baton.

The orchestra swelled. It was the best piece he’d ever written.

David Blackburn, Salinas

The Sticky Drunk

“I’m telling you, I’m the real Spider-Man.”

I hated hanging with Kerwin. Booze, even a little, hit him like a rock fist. He kept yammering. We’d come to the roof of the Suites for shots of peppermint schnapps. I wanted to see the sun drop over Pacific Grove and think about Mona. Dude wouldn’t shut up. It was his booze though, so…

“Jump off the edge and holler if you ain’t dead, but leave the bottle.”

Kerwin grinned and took a leap off the side. I nearly crapped myself. “For the love of… ”

“Believe me now?” I heard him say.

Patrick Whitehurst, Seaside

Eye-Tai

Every night, it was the same. One-Eyed Lou would order a gin and tonic and start talking to anyone about how he lost his eye. Sometimes it was a pickax accident or a miscalculated drum solo. Sometimes it was from pulling a Joey out a kangaroo pouch.

Always, in the middle of his story, he would pull out his glass eye and drop it into his drink. The look and smell of his eye socket would usually repulse the listener – so much so, they would leave the bar not finishing their drink.

Lou would always finish it for them.

Shawn Boyle, Pacific Grove

Wrong House

Officer Morris slammed his hands onto the table, “Enough of this charade, Jolly Man!” he snapped.

“I. Am. Santa Claus,” replied the big man in a red and white coat.

“Here’s MY list: You got a little buzzed on your ‘North Pole Snow’ we found, and you decided to break into my house through the chimney.”

“That’s not… ”

“This little fantasy gets you excited? Did you steal all those toys in the bag?”

“Those are for the children!”

Morris leaned into the table, “To lure the children?”

Santa Claus sat back in his chair, exhausted.

“You’re a very sick man, Santa.”

David Johnson Williams, Pacific Grove

The House Guest

Total Darkness as the lights flared out and he fell to the floor and crawled under the desk. He knew she would come, but not like this. Not now. Trembling, he palmed the revolver in his sweaty hands. Where could he hide?

These last days had been building into a frenzy of fear and now he was desperate knowing he was trapped. The door slammed. He could smell that cloying gardenia perfume that pervaded funeral parlors and that she wore all the time. A shrill and whiney voice called his name.

His mother-in-law had arrived for Christmas.

Ethelyne Hughes, Monterey

Sad But True

When I arrived at Mrs. Marcus’ house to clean, she looked ill.

“Just a little under the weather,” she said.

An hour later she sounded like an old-time percolator. “I’m OK,” she said.

I completed the job. Before she could hand me my pay envelope, she collapsed with it in her hand. I left it there.

Paramedics arrived and noticed the envelope. “Mine,” I said and they handed it to me. An hour later she was pronounced dead.

I told my friend Charlie. She laughed at the conclusion.

“What???” I asked, incredulous.

“Coral, it killed her to pay you.”

Coral Meharg, Salinas

Inflection

I called you today. It rang the standard four times before the voicemail rolled over and you chirped, “Hey, you know I can’t answer the phone. Isn’t voicemail great? Leave a message.”

I waited for the automatic message to tell me your mailbox was full, that I couldn’t leave a message. It had been full for over a year.

The last time I saw you, you were on your way to work, a typical rainy, windy November morning. Not unusual for the Peninsula, or Highway 68.

I miss you, and still pay your phone bill just to hear your voice.

Elise Billingsley, Marina

Home Plate

“What do you want for your fifth birthday?”

“To see the Red Sox, Dad. Really.”

“You’re too little.”

That wasn’t true. She was big enough. Definitely.

Before her sixth and seventh birthdays, he asked the same question. She gave the same answer: “Fenway, Dad. Really.”

After she turned eight, he took her. Just her. She couldn’t believe she was seeing Yaz and the Green Monster with her own eyes!

They were best friends that day. Fifteen years later, when she was in college and they weren’t talking, baseball was the elixir.

Baseball was their haven whenever they got stuck.

Annie Michaels, Monterey

Roundhouse Curve

Good try, nice try, keep trying, the dad says as the Frisbee careens from his 10-year-old’s hands into the trees again and again.

“Hold up,” he says finally. “I hold it like this,” he says, leveling the plastic saucer. “With my hand like that, see?”

The boy listens respectfully, one fist on a slender hip.

“And I throw it like so.” His dad whips the Frisbee smoothly to him. The son catches it and waits a beat.

“I throw it like this,” he says, then flings the Frisbee into a heaven of leaves, far from his father’s reach.

Cathleen Calbert, Pacific Grove

Double Play

I stood reading the bright pink flyer affixed to the light pole, hands stuffed into my empty jeans pockets.

LOST DOG. $500 Reward. Call 911-9999.

I need money, but I hadn’t seen the dog. Yet.

Reaching up, I pulled down the flyer and carefully placed it in my backpack. Days later I got the call.

“Is this 611-6666? I saw your poster. I found your dog.”

“Great,” I said. “Please come get your reward.”

She brought the dog. I handed her the promised $100 and she left. I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Is this 911-9999? I found your dog.”

Rob Geller, San Francisco

~ HONORABLE MENTIONS ~

You’re So Fine

I had just met the little boy. He and his younger brother were playing around the fire pit. He looked at me with half-averted eyes and said, shyly, “I’ve never seen an old lady bald before.” I laughed and told him it was because I had to take some medicine that made my hair fall out but it would come back. He said, “Oh,” and went back to playing with his brother.

Just like that.

He saw that I fought a war and I bear some scars, but I am coming back. He was fine with that. So am I.

Kathy Garber, Carmel

Gary

On the first day, Gary remembered that he is God. For the following three days he recalled creating and setting into motion the marvels and intricacies of all of existence. He was nearly overcome by the sensation of his own divinity. As usual, it was quite fascinating. Then, what had been gradual suspicion, on the fifth day became a reacquaintance with and re-submergence into Gary’s unique and utter loneliness.

On the sixth day, he went insane.

On the seventh day, a man found wandering was grateful for the care and attention he received, as he could remember nothing save his name.

Agustin Garcia, Monterey

Observation

She was a writer. He saw her every day in the shop, near a window, that he walked past every morning on his way to the station. She would stare at a page of her notebook and then begin writing again.

He imagined the world in the coffee shop: the voices, dishes and cups stacking noisily, and the scents of coffee, teas and fresh pastries. As he turned the corner, he felt he was still there, in the coffee shop, at the table, near the window.

“Every morning he walks past on his way to the station,” she wrote.

Jim Guffey, Morgan Hill

Heart Rake

I start my Sunday morning like every Sunday morning: raking in the forest. I’ve been doing it since childhood; dad got me raking early, just two years after I could walk. (We are forest people.) “Son,” I remember him telling me, “in raking you will not only find peace, but salvation.”

I was too young to know how crazy that sounds, but the thing is, he was right: raking is like meditation. Plus, the forest gets cleaned out and protected. In the trees, birds sing, and I imagine they’re saying, “It’s gonna work out well.”

I smile, and keep raking.

Samuel Saunders, Monterey

Go No Go

The decision was forthcoming and the anticipation of failure was prominent in such a hopeful environment.

Although Nina had kept a mostly quiet and modest demeanor, her pursuit of success had always been strong and forceful. She had to win at this point, but it was hard to find the inner force to aid her pursuit. She was emotionally tired, but Nina stood strong, looked deep inside herself, knowing full well that she had worked hard, strived for success and had achieved her goals along the way.

She looked up as they came into the room. The decision was forthcoming.

Jim Petralia, Monterey

Childhood Summer

Lizbeth curled up in the back seat of her family’s car, hoping to fall back to sleep until Mommy or Daddy got back from work. The 6-year-old knew to stay hidden under her blanket. She knew this because her parents told her so.

Why were they taking so long? Lizbeth wondered. One of them always comes before the sun shines in the window. She wished that it would be Daddy. He liked to bring her a treat. She hoped he would bring a donut.

“Please Daddy hurry,” Lizbeth whispered before drifting off. “It’s so hot.”

Loree Oak, Prunedale

Almost Perfect

He felt like his guts had been clawed out. The idea that she was leaving crushed him. He said goodbye for the last time, weighing the syllables of her name on his tongue. A veil of sorrow clung to him for an hour. Then he got hungry.

He went to a neighborhood diner. The server was cute. Nice cleavage. “Diana” embroidered boldly above her left breast. A game was on TV. The beer was cold.

Unconsciously, he began rewriting the story of the breakup. If he could get Diana to come home with him, it would be an almost perfect day.

Steven Beutler, Carmel

New Apartment

He had never moved into a furnished apartment before and he found it oddly appealing at first, and then creepy. Did the furniture pull him toward the habits of the previous tenant? Was that the impetus behind these subtle changes, his craving for foods he’d never eaten before, scents lodged in the fibers?

He’d have to replace the furniture, one piece at a time. First to go would be the couch, though it fit that corner perfectly, the light in early evening perfect for reading. But he never read. Until now.

Georgia Hughes, Marina

Core Values

When they got the door open, the flashlights illuminated what they thought was a mass killing. But after their eyes adjusted, it was just a room full of First Aid training torsos.

Two guys sprinted into other rooms. Glen stood there, sick to his stomach. The heat was getting closer. Glen stared at the open mouths of the torsos. They looked like they were gasping for air. He can’t loot this house. He can’t loot any of them. He stepped back outside where the flame greeted him.

He has made some bad choices in his life. This was one of them.

Shawn Boyle, Pacific Grove

Old Man and the Bay

Salty air smelled fishy that early morning. An old man changed his bait and cast his line out from Pier 2. Fog slowly broke up as sailboats headed into Monterey Bay. A buoy went bong in the distance. Then tourists walked past him or stopped, saying in German, French, Chinese, or other foreign words, pointing at him with tots on their sides. Another young father stooped down, took his little girl’s hand, raising his other arm, “Look, Pelican” then pointing down, “Seal” then pointing toward the old man, “Fisherman,” before walking away down the pier.

Rad Roach, Gonzales

Blizzard

He had been driving in the blizzard for hours when tiredness demanded he stop. Straining to see through wildly swirling snow, he glimpsed a neon sign’s golden glow ahead. When he reached “MOTEL,” he turned, parked, and walked dully inside.

“We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Marsden,” the clerk greeted as Marsden registered. The words drifted by unnoticed, and Marsden went to his room – clean, with mismatched furniture and a faded quilt on the double bed.

Marsden lay gratefully down, dimly aware of sweet music while presumed neon glow filled his window. “Expecting me?” he suddenly wondered, then gave in to unconsciousness.

Steve Schechter, Irvine

If A Condor…

One day in Big Sur you see, I had to stop and pee behind a tree. Above in a tree were nine condors looking down at me. I told them they were the most beautiful birds one could see. Watched them for half an hour, they were only ten feet away from me!

Suddenly with a screech and a scowl. Up came the condor paparazzi exclaiming in glee, “Can you see!” But the condors not liking much flew to the sea. Leaving me pondering, if a condor is what one wants to see, how inept at it one could be.

Wendy Oberbreckling, Del Rey Oaks

Zoom Out

Snaking away from the Salinas Amtrak station, Marcus exhaled. With only scenery and Wi-Fi between him and Chicago, home and all its stresses receded.

Near Sacramento, Marcus passed homeless encampments sprouting like mushrooms along the tracks. A woman with matted hair flashed him a huge, toothless grin. In Denver, a fat drunk staggered onto the rails, causing a dramatic delay. A scrawny couple with a screaming infant came aboard somewhere in Nebraska, arguing all night.

And finally, Chicago. Cold as a witch’s tit and the deep dish was too salty. That night, Marcus texted his girlfriend, “I f’ing luv Seaside!”

Deanna Ross, Del Rey Oaks

Last Word

Lizardi the writer awoke at midnight, searched for his old typewriter sat in front of it and opened a bottle of whiskey. But before he could lay his hands on the keyboard, he encountered the silhouette of a stranger pointing a gun.

Nothing personal, I’m only following orders!

Who sent you to kill me?

Your ego did!

But you’re just a figment of my imagination!

I am, however my bullets are not! BANG!

Next morning Lizardi was found. Prescription jar and a bottle of whiskey, both empty, together with THIS, his last story.

Enrique Pilozo, Mission Viejo

Connected

Surprising how dark it was. But balmy for a winter night. Just a short walk to home and a favorite dinner.

Suddenly, strong heavy arms encircled her and pulled her tight. Something from underneath a jacket poked into her ribs. His breathing was erratic. “Keep walking,” he ordered.

Startled, shocked, she twisted to face him. “What’s the matter?” she implored. He flinched. Winced. Then pushed her on.

“What is the matter?” she repeated, louder, beseechingly, trying to peer into his eyes. Something crumpled. He let go, turned away and fled into the night. Still trembling, she made it home.

Carol Jefferies, Monterey

Handle With Care

“Sorry I broke it dad.”

“Don’t worry son, I’ll see what I can do.”

After a little tinkering and some good old-fashioned ingenuity, the father leans back and exhales. “Go ahead, try it now.”

The boy then engages the drive system and syncs the bio-adapter with the motion controller. He releases the gap separator which allows for a re-connection.

“It works, I can move my leg,” shouts the boy.

“Son, next time please be careful. If you crash again and damage your head, I can’t fix that. We’ll have to get a replacement and mom will not be happy.”

Daniel Gearhart, Salinas

Grandmothers

My grandmother said they experimented on rabbits when she was growing up in Germany, during the war. Then she told me about food rationing.

“I was so hungry, I stole apples. They were bitter and mealy, oh, so awful. I got sick. It was terrible, just terrible. All over two lousy apples. When do you think you can visit next?”

I said I wasn’t sure.

I was curious about the rabbits, so I researched. I learned that Nazis called the women used in medical experiments “rabbits.” Some of the women are still alive today.

I wonder what they tell their grandchildren.

Julia Franco, San Jose

One Night

He curled deeper into the covers, losing himself in the warm blanket abyss.

A drunken sleep kept a tight hold on his dreams as it safeguarded his face in calm serenity. Except his brow, a furrowed canyon on his soft, drooling face. He twitched. Jerking to the side on the living room couch. Inches from falling he engaged in some light sleep acrobatics and… BAM. He fell to the ground.

Eyes blinking awake, searching for clarity. Mind rummaging for the last unblemished memory. Hands reaching for the bedside tablet to pull him up. It wasn’t there. And neither was she.

Stacie Buell, Washington D.C.

Old Gringo

The old cowboy looked in the mirror for the last time. He nostalgically remembered the battles from yesteryear, the adventures and recognition. Opened his drawer and caressed medals gotten on the battlefield. Fished around looking for the ancient compass that had guided him in his glory years, try as he might, could not find it.

He convinced himself he could do without it, all he needed was inside his holster, faithful Colt 45. After all He was the Law, and New World Order is imposed by blood and fire; nobody can lose a war when “In God We Trust.”

Enrique Pilozo, Mission Viejo