Sci-fi, laughs, life and death, all in 101 words.

First Place

Impossible To Say

“A horrible death!” exclaimed Watson.

“Macabre.” Holmes lit his pipe. “And the most puzzling I’ve ever seen.”

“The disinherited niece.” Watson frowned. “The demented cousin. The cheated partner. The stepbrother. The rejected fiancée.”

Holmes nodded. “All with motives – none with access.”

“And the death site?”

“Nothing,” said Holmes. “No cigarette ash, no broken twigs, no footprints.”

“How exactly did he die? So much blood – ”

“Impossible to determine. No weapon.”

“Well – ” Watson paused. “You’ll solve the next one, I’m sure.”

Holmes smiled. “I’ve solved this one.”

“Who?” Watson gasped. “And how?”

“Sorry.” Holmes sighed. “Can’t tell you. Word limit.”

Ann Folsom | Monterey

Second Place

Story Time

Sixty people in the room. The author reads from his new novel. “A preview,” he tells them. “This one isn’t published yet.” As he reads, the room unsettles. First one and then another hears something too familiar, something no one should know, that they’d wanted hidden. “The things people are ashamed of make the best stories,” the speaker says. “Fitzgerald said that. Wouldn’t you agree?” Several people are weeping. Others are angry. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a man asks, rising from his seat. “I’m just telling a story,” the speaker says. “What the hell were you doing?”

Henry Marchand | Marina

Third Place

Making A Name

Jimmie Aikens stuffed his scant belongings and his heap of hopes into the mud-brown suitcase, borrowed from his grandma. He left behind the tractors and trailers of his dusty West Texas hometown. On his bus ride to New York, he imagined his name, in bold letters, flashing on Broadway marquees. He pictured rave reviews of his performances in the Sunday Times. He waited tables, cleaned corporate suites, and auditioned. Months passed. One dreary November morning, headlined in the West Texas Daily, “Jimmie Aikens, shot dead, in NYC, in a case of mistaken identity.”

Judy Dow | Monterey

Fourth Place

Hospice Volunteer

Was I the mother, the daughter, the sister, the lover, the one who’d abandoned or rejected my conversationalist? We both knew there was nothing more I could do, no hopeful assurance I could give, nothing I could do but listen and respond. Then one day I’d arrive, and the bed was freshly made and all the personal items, pictures, and books, gone.

The Head Nurse would tell me of a gentle passing early in the morning, too late to call me. So I’d go to the cafeteria, drink a cup of coffee, read, then go to my next conversationalist.

Peter Mehren | Pacific Grove

Runners Up

The Box

The box had been unclaimed for a month when it caught a postal worker’s eye. Blowing dust from its top, he saw pale arrows pointing to each of three sides. He lifted the box – it began to glow, and an image of this moment appeared on the adjacent wall. He turned the next arrow toward the wall, producing an image from his past. Another turn, another image – his future? Hesitating, he turned the arrowless side toward the wall. When the worker didn’t arrive the next morning no one noticed. A month passed before the box caught someone’s eye again.

Steve Schechter | Irvine

A remarkable quiet blankets the forest, altered only by the wind whispering to the pine and an occasional scolding by a mountain jay.

Cat-astrophic

A flick of the tail left and right betrayed the otherwise calm exterior of the hardened, tiny hunter. Claws flexed in preparation for attack; eyes that fixated on the target saw every little nuance that would indicate movement two steps ahead. Agile muscles twitched under thick, striped fur, anticipating the perfect moment to pounce. Thousands of years of evolution has made it the perfect killing machine; capable of ripping flesh, and tearing limb from limb. This time would be no exception. With precision, the hunter sprang forward with quickness and latched on. The foot under the blanket didn’t stand a chance.

Jenna Hillhouse | Seaside

Familiar Ring

The most disturbing part of being a first responder to a mass shooting, he shared, is not the bodies on the floor, or the blood on the walls. It’s neither the wounded survivors nor the remains of the shooters’ brains.

The most disturbing part of being a first responder to a mass shooting is the ringing coming from the victims’ pockets and tightly clutched cell phones in their hands. That’s what kept him up at night. The screams that awoke our sleep were his memories of the ringtones. Desperation building after each unanswered call to ensure the safety of the receiver.

Karmina | Monterey

Vision Quest

The three had traveled far across the islands into the heart of Athens. Scholars and academics, they had dreamed at Delphi, passed through the Lion Gate at Mycenae, searched Ithaca. Now they were on their last quest – something they had been longing and hoping for so long it had become an obsession. They could not live another day without it. Their noses twitched for the familiar fragrance. Eyes alight for the landmark sign. And then, suddenly it appeared before them like the Holy Grail. The Golden Arches! They had found the only McDonald’s in Athens.

Ethelyne Hughes | Monterey

August 2017

After a raucous USC reunion weekend, Andy and Phil met at their favorite hangout, the Library Bar, home of the best grilled cheese ever and Guinness on tap.

Andy was fired up about the future.

“I’m moving out of LA, Phil. Traffic, pollution – I’ve had it. We went to Jennifer’s cousin’s wedding up north, and found a better place to live.

“Now that Jen’s pregnant, we want cleaner air, more wilderness. There’s a great town in the Sierra foothills, millions of pine trees.

“It’s paradise!”

Phil was intrigued.

“What’s it called?”

“I told you, bro.

“Paradise, California.”

Suzzane Mansager | Salinas

Racial Justice Fairy

“I’m the Racial Justice Fairy.”

“Oh, you’re a wet… ,” replied Red the Bigot before she punched him. When he punched back, his fist went straight through her.

“You’ll be punished for your racism, until you do something uniquely American made.”

“Easy,” he said taking a swig of beer.

“Recipe’s German.”

And she broke the bottle over him. She body slammed him in the Swedish log cabin and broke his ribs on the French Statue of Liberty.

At the point of death, Red decided Chinese for his last meal. The orange chicken saved his life.

Derek Yip | Arroyo Grande

Abuela’s Funeral

I’m sorry, Abuela. I didn’t mean to laugh when they put your ashes into that wall. I just thought it was kind of funny that they had to get a maintenance guy with a ladder to put you up there. His arms were covered with tattoos, which you’d always hated. Ironic. Then the priest stepped up to bless your final resting place, equipped with a small plastic bottle full of holy water. And I laughed because when he tried to spray the holy water on you, he missed. And all the holy water dripped down the wall onto the pavement.

Alanza Bell | Monterey

Know When To Hold ’Em… Or Fold ’Em

Some grandmas bake cookies, babysit grandchildren and/or rescue dogs. Grandma Grace baked spaghetti and gambled on love at casinos. Spinning tales of exotic travels to Atlantic City and Las Vegas where she had dalliances with wealthy benefactors (aka sugar daddies), she toyed with men’s hearts like a cat with a mouse. Not looking for true love, she refused to marry any of these rascals until she met her match while playing slots. The bells were ringing when Slick, a known ladies man, stole her heart and married her for her money. And they lived with dicey karma ever after.

Celia Sue Hecht | Marina

A Trip To The Grocery Store

I’m writing as fast as I can. These arthritic fingers have slowed me down over the years and I can’t seem to hold a pen anymore. I see them all lined up mocking me. Standing there impatiently with their fancy bank cards and their complicated pin codes. All I want is my pistachio ice cream and food for my cat. I don’t carry cash and I still have to fill in the date and sign my name, so you’ll have to wait a little longer. In 50 years it’ll be your turn to be scoffed at with your outdated, plastic cards.

Summer Montanez | Seaside

Eighty-Sixed

I’ve got a sharp pain in my left arm, difficulty breathing. It’s five in the morning. I’ve got 86 years. I had open heart surgery some years back. I’m sitting on a hassock in the living room musing at the regularity of the moment. Cats roaming, awaiting their morning meal, my wife, 15 years my junior, getting ready for work. I’m calm, serene, despite my affliction, the possibility of the inevitable. Age acknowledges mortality. I take two pain pills. Get up off my ass, put water on for coffee. Just a normal morning. One more day. Perhaps.

David Wolf | Salinas

“Sorry.” Holmes sighed. “Can’t tell you. Word limit.”

Cracked Eggs

Kevin squinted through darkness and jerked his arm forward. The egg, no match for wind, launched askew.

Light glinted in the corner of his glasses. Car.

He twisted around, “run!” on the edge of his lips, but Charlie’s fist interrupted, sledge hammering into his nose with a spurt of translucent goop.

Charlie clutched his damaged wrist. “Dude, what the… ”

Headlights neared. Kevin’s friends scattered.

Still reeling – and dripping with egg – Kevin stumbled across wet grass until his sneakers caught traction on asphalt.

The lights were now bright. His final thought before being struck was the foul taste of egg goop.

Crystal Libby | Salinas

Honorable Mentions

The Eyes Have It

The windshield was foggy. Jimmy couldn’t see a thing. It wasn’t just the weather. He had been losing his vision. He was close to the eye bank. Time for a withdrawal, he thought. The procedure was quick in 2049. He could be home for dinner! He went inside. He felt as if he was being watched. He was. There had been a lot of deposits at this bank, in a nice selection of colors. All eyes were on Jimmy! Done an hour later, he considered glasses on the way out. Not wanting to make a spectacle of himself, he went home.

David Blackburn | Salinas

Cementing A Relationship

Hal Zanders and his wife, LouElla, filled their life with antiques, looking for the perfect 18th-century armoire. Maybe the antiques were a substitute for the children they never had. That was probably good, because when they finally found the armoire at a shop in San Francisco, they walked downhill happily, congratulating themselves.

That’s when the cement truck driver lost control and ran them over, killing them instantly. They were lucky.

Georgia Van Dam | Seaside

Waiting

She stares out the window, her breath fogs up the glass. She’s been waiting it seems forever. She will continue to wait. Her eyelids grow heavy. Crack. She sits up quickly, her eyes flashing open wide, darting across the yard. She sees a puff of a snow settling down around a freshly downed limb. Disappointment flickers across her face as she settles back, waiting. The night slowly crawls on. Tracked by the tick, tick, ticking of the clock. She succumbs to sleep. Her head sliding sideways to rest on the cushions. Then and only then… the jingling of bells on the roof.

Hannah Brotherton | Monterey

Now I Know Better

I used to love Halloween. I bought candy corn to share with the cowboys, robots, witches, gypsies, spiders, and black cats who knocked and chanted, “Trick or treat.” I loved being a ghost, as a child. But – cowboys whip, spur their horses. Robots mock technology. Witches? Sexually derogatory – no costumed warlocks. Felines’ black faces? Genetic discrimination. “Gypsies” – offensive slang for Romani. Spiders, essential to life, may overcome climate change. And ghosts – white sheets? Nooses? Corn – cultural appropriation. This year I know better. I turned off the lights, ignored the knocks, and discreetly finished all the candy.

Ann Folsom | Monterey

Ditto

Christian bullies me every day. I wished he knew my struggles. He takes the little money I have; I only bring one dollar to school a week because my family is homeless and we don’t have the means. We live in tents on Soledad Street, along with 40 other homeless families. Today he spit on my face, taking my dollar and my pride. I cried until I reached my tent, wondering why people hurt those who have nothing. Christian sat four tents over.

Alex Vasquez | Watsonville

The One Percent

A turtle, buzzard and rabbit bought a farm and planted corn, then they sent the rabbit off to get some manure for fertilizer.

While he was gone they discovered oil, got rich, built a mansion, and hired a butler.

When the rabbit returned, the butler answered the door.

The rabbit asked, “Where’s the turtle?”

Butler: “Oh, you mean Mr. Tur-tel. Mr. Tur-tel is down by the well.”

Rabbit: “Where’s the buzzard?”

Butler: “You mean Mr. Buz-ard. Mr. Buz-ard is out in the yard.”

Rabbit: “Well you tell Mr. Tur-tel and Mr. Buz-ard that Mr. Rah-bit is here with the shit!”

Glen O’Neil | Pacific Grove

On Track

Snowflakes and memories of dad accompany me in climbing his favorite Sierra trail. I love the sound of snow crunching beneath my boots. A remarkable quiet blankets the forest, altered only by the wind whispering to the pine and an occasional scolding by a mountain jay. Throughout my young life until I left for Iraq, family and friends joined in the trek. Snow-covered granite boulders, brush, living and fallen trees lined the way. I pause and turn to see from where I’d come, but I don’t see my tracks in the snow. I understand and continue my ascent.

David Eisbach | San Jose

Art Appreciation 101

“It’s brilliant,” they said. “Such depth and thought,” they whispered. Groups gathered around to see and to take in the spectacles, tucked away in the far corner of the modern art museum; away from more grand pieces that highlighted the exhibit hall. To each person that passed by and stopped to look, it meant something else. It represented clarity on a diluted past or an event yet to come. An understanding that we all needed guidance to see things from a different perspective. To Carissa, who was waiting back behind the crowd, it meant that she had misplaced her glasses again.

Jenna Hillhouse | Seaside

The Ocean

The Ocean is a greedy thing. It takes what it wants, and leaves all the rest. It washed away the footprints of a woman, now forgotten, and under the pier, on a sorrowful day in late July, it took her last breath in the most gruesome way. She knew what her fate would be if taken by the water, but nevertheless, she entered. Deeper, deeper, and deeper she went. Suddenly she was swept off her feet and hit her head, and in the end, the ocean won and all it thought was, “That was fun.”

Hannah Haggquist | No city listed

The Collector

It started when Zara was 8, with a Cabbage Patch Doll from Santa.

By her 11th birthday, flat-faced babies lined her bedroom walls like plush picket fences.

At 14, Zara discovered charm bracelets. For years she swooned over tiny silver tennis rackets and gem-encrusted apples, her wrists jangling.

At 20, Zara bought a dainty porcelain tea cup. Soon her apartment swelled with hand-painted blossoms on bone white curves.

Then Zara spotted Robert at an antiques show, and vowed to add him to her life.

Six months later, Zara and Robert sold everything to travel the world together, their collections suddenly complete.

Deanna Ross | Del Rey Oaks

The Big Decision

The tension in the meeting room was palpable. They had been discussing the issue for hours. It was time to vote. Mildred was filled with anxiety. What if they made the wrong choice? She didn’t think she’d be able to stand it if the vote went the wrong way. She looked round the table. Joseph’s right knee was twitching. Joanna’s face was drained of color. “Right,” said George, “you know the drill. All those in favor,” and then, “the ayes have it, the color of the new cushions in the lobby will be blue.” Mildred heaved a sigh of relief.

Clare Mounteer | Pacific Grove

Getting Reconnected

The knock was loud. Insistent. Demanding.

“Papa!” she shouted. “Open up!”

No response.

She found the spare key and unlocked the door.

“Papa? You here? I’ve been calling and texting and… ”

Flames flickering in the fireplace caught her eye. Instinctively, she moved toward them. And saw him slumped in his chair.

She gasped. “Papa! Are you… ”

“Alive?” he winked. “You bet.”

He had wine on the table, Chopin on the stereo, a newspaper in his lap.

“Reborn, actually.”

Then she saw it, in the fireplace, charred to a crisp: his smartphone.

“Want your life back?” he smiled. “Toss yours in, too!”

Roy Verley | San Jose

Neck To Neck

Nosferatu lusted for the season. Blending in at Halloween parties, he need not stay in the gloom including his creepiness. Oh how close he could come to his delicious victims without causing fear’s smell being emitted when they sensed his evilness. There, that exotically dressed she-wolf had delectably tawny neck and aroma. He trembled in anticipation next to her. Then with a deep sniff, she alerted!!! She recognized him for what he was – Lycon’s enemy and foul food! While the werewolf licked away his taste from her whiskers, she wallowed in the season’s wantonness. Nosferatu no longer lusted.

R. Grab | King City

Twenty years later, I’m sad that I don’t care about animal crackers.

Animal House

I sifted through the bag, studying each cookie one by one, searching for imperfections. A head is missing from this lion – down my throat. This limbs broke off this came – down my throat. The face of this… cat? It’s smoothed over and undecipherable – down my throat. These are perfect, and ready to be scrutinized by their animal qualities. These horses are supreme. This camels cute and can gallop with the horses across the table. These hippos are just blobs – down my throat.

Twenty years later, I’m sad that I don’t care about animal crackers.

Crystal A. Libby | Salinas

Out of Context

Outtakes from this year’s story entries range from sad to funny to shocking.

Is it legal to own a wolf?

Please. Dear Jesus Christ. Give me a jazz so white hot it will burn these cornfields to the ground.

Unfolding the envelope to look was like releasing time itself. And time was running away.

How he knew, exactly when he knew, no one knows.

I watched him stretch his arms high above his head, his black business suit ballooned about his body, his tie took flight, his pants puffed up, his briefcase flew open releasing white papers flying like miniature magic carpets.

“I’m looking for hand cuffs.” “Furry?” “Are there any other kind?”

He escaped the violence of his home country as pieces of body parts of friends and family appeared throughout the city like confetti.

I want to be a Power Ranger when I grow up.

Moral of the story is don’t kiss your dog.

Werewolves and vampires go to great lengths to avoid one another.

Off they travel from the depths of my frontal cortex to the front desk of the Monterey County Weekly.

I’m driving to Target to buy wings for my Angel of Death costume.

Ashamed, I pee on her driveway.

I threw my clothes on the counter, my trousers caught on fire.

The small man removed his black cigar from beneath a moustache that looked like two toothbrushes mating.

The door of the church creaks open. Febreze fills the air, drowning out the stain of blood on the cross.

Did an English accent come with those results?

Sparkling beads of sweat floated away like rainbow bubbles, dispersing the wizard’s power.

A little nitrous oxide in the classroom never hurt anyone.

Thank goodness the Monterey Public Library is open every day.

Being trapped in a room alone does nothing good for morale.

The miniature on her leash resembled an ill-conceived cross between a Chihuahua and a howler monkey.

His breath slowly being taken like candy from a baby.

Silence fills the room and all that’s left is Tom’s true colors splattered on the wall.

Dark energy, brother. Feel the love.

Memories are like the smoke from an old steam train.

Sage men ponder the shape of the soul in their own benign ways.

And in conclusion, inchworms taste amazing.

I am a spinny chair, soft and squishy. I always feel like my owner squashes my ideas. When I have a thought, he sits on me.

I ran back into my room, locked the door, grieved for the loss of my iPad and tried to go to sleep.

Last class, he brought in a raccoon, a rabid one I swear he was.

I stroll down the hill into the forest where the birds go “tweet, tweet, tweet.”

Okay, fine. We’ll have the funeral in the bouncy-house.

She didn’t stop dancing until her performance was over.

Every third Tuesday night there’s a wild rendezvous of Mountain Men around my fountain. You don’t say “No” to Mountain Men.

Turned out to be a murder. Bad rookies.

And One Plea

In case I should win, please make check payable to Epiphany Lutheran & Episcopal Church.