The 101-Word Short Story Contest provides another mirror into storytelling soul.

Year to year, thematic patterns emerge. One year, cat stories proliferate; another year it’s all about sex. This year, for reasons both logical and mysterious, the main motifs were dystopia, death and… feces. Go figure. One thing never changes: Every year, the 101-worders access emotion, inspire smiles and – most reliably – make judges and readers shake their heads.

FIRST PLACE

Last Chapter

It was his last request of me, and he’d been a good friend, so I took the plastic bag with the portion of his ashes his executor gave me, put them into a hollowed-out book, and glued it shut, his personal info available on the title page. I put a dull title and a seemingly appropriate Dewey decimal number on the spine and made room for it among the similarly numbered books near the carrel he’d compulsively used for over 10 years, doing his futile research. “The only place I felt comfortable.” Ideally, it will be there, unnoticed, forever.

Peter Mehren | Pacific Grove

SECOND PLACE

Better Instincts

The night after the presidential election, I walked into the grassy darkness of Jewell Park hoping to ease post-election blues. Midway across, a dark mass took identifiable shape in front of me. An antlered buck stepped gingerly forward, lifted its chin, and said, “How ya doin’?” so matter-of-factly I had to answer, “OK. You?” The deer bent to the fresh grass while I waited. “Don’t worry, “ he managed between munches. “It’s all working out to plan.” I don’t know why I believed him. I nodded, and unwilling to press my luck with a talking buck, walked, comforted, home.

Steve Schechter | Pacific Grove

THIRD PLACE

Then and Now

When I was young I saw an old man sitting on a bench with tears silently streaming down his cheeks and I wondered why. Now I’m an old man with tears quietly flowing down my face and I wonder why no longer.

John Kurzenhauser | Pacific Grove

RUNNERS UP

Romantic Twist

“What dreams may come,” he sighs into the dingy bathroom mirror. He looks deep into his eyes hoping they will pierce back. They just look dark. And hollow.

Pasting the smile back on, he returns to the bar with “Honky Tonk Blues” playing.

“Any redemption in the bottom of that glass?” he quips playfully, taking his seat. She grins. All her responses are clear. Pity.

She chats. He sips whiskey. Absently, he fingers his holster, regretting what comes next.

Leaving together, he holds the door. She leans in close for a kiss and grabs his .380.

“Your move,” she says coolly.

Brian C. Edwards | Carmel

Falling Fast

The SUV pulled off the lonely country road and parked by the bridge. The driver, late 60s with thick, whitening hair, stared into empty space, his brow knitted, then at the bridge high above the river, and he saw the boy.

Carefully, he opened the car door, eased out and moved toward the bridge, footsteps the only sound.

“Stay away,” the boy said. He must have been 17 or so.

“I won’t hurt you,” answered the man, now a few feet away.

“Just… let me do it,” the boy said.

“Okay,” the man said. “But I’ll go down first. Then you decide.”

Don Dugdale | Salinas

Perfect Mess

“Baby do you ever feel lost in the universe?” I wanted to say, “No, never, darling, not when a celestial clock ticks inside you. I’ve seen comets trail ice tails down your spine and singularities yawn darkly behind your pearl ribs. No, not when I’ve got the sun pulsing in your chest, warming your blood, warming my cheek. Your hands trace the same lines down me like orbital paths and I am anchored in you as a moon is anchored to its planet.” But all I could say was, “Sometimes.”

Grace Young | Menlo Park

Death Becomes Her

He got the news of his sister’s death days later. That was the problem with being overseas. “Should I send money?” He knew his mother’s shop had been struggling lately.

“Your uncle is taking care of it. He says it is just like taxidermy.”

He knew his mother would take it especially hard. They had always been close.

But by the time he returned home, her spirits were high. “Business is good.”

The next day at the shop, near the big window, his hands trembled. “What is this?”

“The new mannequin,” she said with a smile.

They had always been close.

Kendall Rodriguez | Seaside

Desperate Desire

My blood pressure raised, or lowered, I don’t remember which. I was either elated or relieved to see you; maybe I was both, I don’t know, but you put me outside my normal state of mind.

I stood on my toes and could see you over half a dozen shoulders ahead of me. My mind raced with thoughts of being the one to take you home.

Anxiety came over me when I overheard a gentleman comment to another that you “look good.” Really, that was his best compliment? I ran 10 miles to get here! I want you maple donut éclair!

Cisco Camacho | No City Listed

Type Casting

Type. Type again. Hyphenate. Retype. Typo. Typical. Frustration. Crumple. (Can you crumple a computer screen?) Type. Type. Cry. Type. Contemplate ways to floss teeth (Will crumpled paper work?), Type. Retype. Stupid contest. Type. Exaggerate. Exfoliate. Caffeinate. Type. Type. Type! Type. Rethink this whole “you have to be a writer” concept. Type. Cry (again?). Type. Type. Two hours. Word count. Check. Type. Backspace. Type again. Close? No. Type. Tiptoe. Type. Call for backup. Save document. Copy document. Type. Typos (again?). Type. Type. Type. Open email. Check address. Copy again. Type. Type. Pray. Send. Did it send? Why did I send that? Die.

Elise Billingsly | Marina

Love Curveball

I never knew what true love was until I met her. True love is admiring her curves when she is young or old. True love is appreciation despite her imperfections. True love is nursing her back to health in her illness. True love is working on her to better her. True love is spending long days and nights together. True love is washing her because she is unable to herself. True love is opening her door, hopping in the driver seat, revving her engine, racing around the track, and pushing her to take first place. True love is a race car.

Marcy Hernandez | Marina

HONORABLE MENTIONS

Christmas In The Kitchen

Eight hours straight she cooked. No one was there, but she didn’t mind. It was enough to know that soon everyone would be together. She made the candied dates for Jimmy, and apple crisp for Pearl. She set the table with grandma’s china because she knew how much it meant to grandpa. And when the phone call came that the roads were blocked and nobody would be coming after all, she only cried a little bit before putting everything away, making herself a cup of tea, and taking out the family photo album like they always did on Christmas Eve.

Emilia Sarah Siletto | Carmel Valley

In Country

The woman and her children stood silhouetted by a display of $39.95 China-made Santa Clauses. She spoke quietly with the pharmacy clerk, forgetting her shopping cart and purse.

A burly customer marveled at her slender beauty. He wondered: “Where in America do Muslims buy tailored, silk burqas?” Awaiting his prescriptions, he browsed liquor aisles.

The woman and children heard someone calling. They stopped in the phosphorescent parking lot light. Looking back she wondered: “Why – even in America – would anyone wear shorts in winter and show a prosthetic leg?”

“Your handbag.”

“Thank you. Happy holidays,” she said.

“Salam.”

Ron Eastwood | Spreckels

Hand it Over

It was bloodshot hot today. Hot enough to make you melt. Or explode.

Ready to hoist a cocktail, I started to leave the office.

Then she walked in, cutting a figure like a razor blade. She carried herself smoothly, but with a forced calm.

“I’m told you can help me,” she cooed behind wide green eyes. I involuntarily gaped.

She placed a large envelope on my desk. Obediently, I opened it to reveal a picture of a severed hand.

“Look lady, I’m a lawyer! What do you want with me?!?”

She steadily replied “Forensics say that hand belongs to you.”

Brian C. Edwards | Carmel

Othered

Paul’s exit interview with the HR director had gone well. It seems he was being “Othered.” He had thought that the only options were “Fired” “Quit” or “Laid Off.” Turns out there was another box: “Other.” The HR head had used words like “interpersonal” and “redundant” and “labor reactively market driven.” Paul was assured those were relevant to being “othered.” And so it was that Paul felt relieved. Squatting pensively on the hood of the HR director’s car, his trousers around his ankles, he reflected on his relief. And the shiny metal of the hood reflected his relief back to him.

Gary Bolen | Salinas

Bad Taste

The waiter fixed his good eye on me as he slowly raised a bushy eyebrow. He gently stroked his pencil thin mustache and lifted, with dramatic flair, the bottle of wine. His precise, almost mechanical pour allowed the wine to gurgle out of the bottle and the sound to fill the thick, silent atmosphere between us. I stared at the amber liquid in the glass and I winced at the challenge before me. My eyes narrowed and sweat gathered on my forehead. The glass touched my trembling lips while being followed by his horrible good eye. “It’s good,” I said.

K.J. Pepper | Carmel

Fad Diet

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror with his arm up. Such yummy yellow BO.

A short “thisssiss” escaped his lips as he yanked on the purple/black skin tag that he’d been burning with salicylic acid over the last month. After a gooey battle of burned skin and pain it finally died save the thin piece of skin still anchoring it down. Defeated, it came off with a final sweaty tug. “YES!!” He whispered in triumph. It looked like a large raisin. He rolled it between his fingers for a second, then popped it his mouth. Sadly, scabs taste better.

Aaron Breeden | Carmel

Torn Apart

The sunlight from the kitchen window shone on the wedding photograph. As she put the dishes away, she noticed a splash of lightness down the middle of the smiling couple gazing at each other lovingly. She looked up at the spider plant in macramé dripping a few drops of water onto the oak frame. “Dang, he was not careful about moving the picture before watering,” she thought as she looked over at him watching the game. She tried to pry the water soaked photo from the frame, but it ripped down the middle. Fifteen years later she filed for divorce.

Laurie Lindley Muender | Carmel

The Chase

Breathing heavily she forced herself to keep going, it seemed as though she had been running forever. Adrenaline pumping through her body. Damp earth, sticks and leaves crunched loudly beneath her feet and she could hear his too, not far behind. She was losing momentum, trying not to think about what would happen if he caught up with her. Relief washed over her at the sight of her cozy little cabin in the distance. Safety. Just then she felt his hands on her back and her heart sank as she heard the words she had been dreading: “Tag! You’re it!”

Megan Handy | Big Sur

Reference Check

“Library of Congress, Help Desk,” she chirped. A familiar voice was on the other end of the phone.

“Help me, Marion the Librarian,” he cooed.

“Mr. Baron?” she inquired.

“I can’t take the job,” he blurted out. “They practically forced it on me, like nasty sex. They want me so bad. But I can’t take it. So much bureaucracy. Hopeless. Big lifestyle comedown too. Big time. It was a beautiful win though. Beautiful. So Marion, who do I send my letter of refusal to?”: The librarian answered, “That would be White House, attention Personnel Department, 1600 Pennsylvania Ave., Washington, D.C., 20500.”

Chris Ricker | Greenfield

Persona

Harry was dead. Oh, his heart was still beating, his breathing steady. Harry’s hand was only an inch from the bridge rail, but the laws of gravity had taken inexorable control. In the last micro-second of his mortal time he thought of his favorite Chinese restaurant and of the contents of his pockets: a quarter, two nickels, an e-cigarette, and car keys. His large beautiful white teeth clamped tightly together, his hair tousled about and his eye wide open. He wished he had dressed better for this final event and hoped the ion-lithium battery in his e-cigarette wouldn’t catch fire.

K. J. Pepper | Carmel

Spinning World

“Fear is the true enemy,” whispers Daniel. “Fear is an illusion.” He eases the duffle into the passenger seat and exhales. “Just a four letter word,” he nods, accelerating. People and cars are thronged outside the giant building. Bright lights flash on wet pavement and slash the darkness. “The only thing to fear is regret,” he mumbles, instinctively touching his cross pendant. But his hands shake as he grips the wheel. “Fuck fear!” he yells, grabbing the duffle bag and rushing into the crowd. An hour later, he’s covered in sweat and grinning. His beautiful gym instructor has just said “Yes.”

Deanna Ross | Del Rey Oaks

Finding…

Nemo longed for home and wondered where he was. He’d navigated his way through a sea of plastic, only to end up here. Everywhere he looked, the ocean floor was covered with thousands of little white domes, like an outer space playground. What was going on? He hurled his body high in the air and spotted a sign: “Pebble Beach.” But he saw few pebbles… He swam closer to examine the domes and noticed they were coming apart. Hungry, he nibbled at what looked like grass. Then, exhausted, he slowly sank to the bottom to his grave amongst the white balls.

Karen Cameron | Salinas

Solo Suds

On a Saturday night, alone again, you do laundry. Is there any place more depressing? you wonder, not for the first time. You’ve played on your phone; you’ve read the orphaned magazines. You scour the bulletin board, like every week; hoping to find what you need to fix your life. You read: “MISSING: ALZHEIMER’S PATIENT Bridget Lund. 56 years old, brown hair, hazel eyes. 5’6” 140 pounds. Missing since Saturday. Last seen at the mall. Bridget functions like a 6-year-old. Please call her husband Karl with any information.” You stop reading. You wish you could wash that man’s clothes.

Katherine Ross | Monterey

Why Can’t We Be Friends

A rather unique man lives and works over the hill in Monterey – over on Abrego Street. He sits at the window; blue shirt, blue apron, red tie, bold pocket pencil; always grasping a small hammer. He is a cobbler. I wave or nod, but never a response; his demeanor intrigues me. Some days he sits motionless, probably pondering life. Sometimes he disappears by nightfall, and I wonder if he might have a lover he meets for a late night drink over at Alfredo’s. I wonder who that cobbler is. I wish we could be friends.

Frank Salcido | Carmel

Broken Bottle

He spent the next four years of his life trying to forget her. The day she broke it off he went home and dusted off that old bottle of whiskey he keeps hidden away. He tried to drink the pain away a little at a time, but never got drunk enough to forget her piercing green eyes. One brisk fall evening, he finally drank away her memory and found peace. Rumors flew, but nobody knew how much she blamed herself. She reads his obituary daily, pours a dark liquid into her coffee, and looks at her husband and children with regret.

Juliana Tarallo | Monterey

Hot Babe

Bootsy had a complex soul for an award-winning pig. Unlike friends and family, he’d survived his 10th birthday. Fate as a BLT or Easter platter? Never. Life mattered. Knowing his physiology resembled humans, Bootsy hoped to donate his body to science, to xenotransplantation, or the like. But old man Kraft knew he could win a cook-off on Bootsy’s tender pork shoulders. When loaded onto the truck, Bootsy heard Kraft murmur, “Well, Bootsy, here’s the rub.” As Kraft pulled a jar of spices from his coveralls, he clenched his chest and collapsed. “Maybe nutritional research instead of medical,” pondered Bootsy with relief.

Michael Gordon | Monterey

For a Loop

“Penny for your thoughts,” she said sweetly, snuggling closer. How could he tell her he’d just broken her prized Montana shower caddy? A limited edition, no more were available (he’d checked). “I… I broke your damn caddy, Melissa,” Josh blurted with dread and relief. “How could you? You know what that means to me.” He didn’t, really. A contraption of recycled sardine cans and baling wire, only someone holed up during a Montana winter could create such a thing. “I’m sorry, babe. We could buy one together – our caddy.” Melissa perked up. “Our caddy,” she repeated, liking the sound of it.

Steve Schechter | Pacific Grove

Simplifying Grief

It is so painful: The Purge. We shared some of life’s most memorable moments: that wedding, the weekend on the sailboat. Then there was that awkward attempt at posing as a younger woman… .rendering me unworthy of being taken seriously. I know we tried to pull off sharing with friends – but it’s finally over. Middle age has come. We had a good run. I’ve lived with you and outgrown the relationship. I wish you many more years of getting used. We arrive. Goodwill is your new temporary home. Yes. I’d like a donation receipt for my taxes.

Deanne Maschmeyer | Seaside

Truth in Liquid

Three of us were fishing in Monterey Bay for salmon, when that humpback whale approached our drifting 16-foot trihull with her calf. I watched her roll, left flipper toward the sky, belly up between us and the baby, a mom’s saucer eye gazing into mine, one deep black circle encased in a larger circle of white. I felt a majestic awe overtake me. I could have reached over the gunwale and touched her. She could have crushed us just as easily.

Rad Roach | Gonzales

Different World

At an estate sale I offered eight new linen dinner napkins, folded and tied with a ribbon for only $3. A young woman, probably in her early 20s, picked them up, examined them very carefully, then asked what they were for. Knowing Emily Post was probably turning over in her grave, I politely and patiently explained their use. She listened, then wrinkled her nose and walked away without comment.

Rae Berry | Carmel

Tell Ourselves

Hunched over his desk, he worked. First he cut little hearts out of duct-tape. Then, ignoring his broken heart and dodging ghosts, he wrapped the stems of two bright sunflowers with rough brown paper and sealed the seam with the duct tape hearts and finished the bouquet by wrapping the stems with purple ribbon. This time will be different… I will be different he whispered to himself. Ten minutes later, pink neon reflected off his face as he stalled outside the busy restaurant a strange dark-haired girl worked at. I will be different…

Aaron Breeden | Carmel

Omnivore Dilemma

Recently I called a local restaurant to inquire if they offered a chicken entrée at this time. The waitress replied that she would have to check the menu. I was stunned at her reply. She said, “Oh yes, we have Chicken Fried Steak.” I politely told her I would call back for a reservation.

Rae Berry | Carmel

Bug Out

He always catches her attention better than anyone else. When she notices him, her eyes widen, whites exposed and pupils dilated. She gasps a small, sharp gasp as she begins to move swiftly. Her hands fly up and out, grappling for the nearest object. A book – no it’s her favorite one. A pen – not effective. An old notebook – ideal. Biting her tongue, her eyes focus on his body: thin, brown, freckled, almost beautiful. This is it, my friend, she thinks. Her notebook flies down, slicing through the air, and the deed is done. She peers underneath, only slightly reluctantly. Yup, dead spider.

Sofia D’Amico | Monterey

Jig Is Up

“Just once. Just enough to get to California.” He felt the note and the replica handgun in his jacket pocket, and approached the front door of the bank, just as a policeman stepped toward him. He nearly turned and ran away, but, rather, stopped, as the policeman unrolled the yellow tape, effectively preventing entrance. One of the bystanders, talking to the air as much as to any individual, said, loudly, “Shot him right in the head, the guard did. Bang! One shot, blew him away.” “Bank’s closed, eh?” he asked the policeman. “Yes, sir.” “OK. Thanks.”

Peter Mehren | Pacific Grove

Old School

Dinner conversation of an elderly couple is showing linguistic cracks. “May I serve you?” “I’d love to view Visalia.” “We’re going nowhere. You’re spoiled.” “Why you asking where my fork is?” “I think I need to do laundry tomorrow.” “Why do you need to go to the Barn Yard tomorrow?” “We need a carpenter to muff that squeak in the dining room door.” “Why do we need a carpenter on the roof?” “No, not on the roof, at the door.” “Who’s at the door?” “OK, I’ll get more Merlot.”

Nancy Lea | Salinas

Jolly Good

He’d been an eyesore to be overlooked, like refuse, unrecognizable for the feral hair that engulfed his haunted stare and the rags that flew from his disjointed torso like flags of surrender. I’d always dreaded passing him as I entered the mall, guilty for having something, he having nothing, rationalizing that he was shiftless and deserved his fate. But at Christmas, as I stopped to put a dollar in the mall entrance Santa’s bucket, a thief ran away with my pocketbook until the Santa tackled him and retrieved it, his face bloodied but never to be overlooked again.

William Wall | Glen Falls, New York

Bitter City

This Victorian house has recessed lighting, there are no photos on the wall. The Keurig coffee maker hums away. We look out well-cleaned windows to the sea. No one lives across the street in another clean-window house with no photographs on the wall. We wave to the people inside, they wave back. The sheets we make love on are fresh and clean. No one lives on this street. On the sidewalk, we pass another couple in jeans and cable-knit sweaters. We say good morning. We ask a barista for directions, but he doesn’t live here, no one does.

Kevin Miller | Pacific Grove

Now and Then

LOST DOG. BROWN AND FRIENDLY. FUNNY BARK. The flyer rustled on the wooden building, forgotten on the county road. Maria’s mind spun back to her first dog, when she was still in Mexico, and her family’s warm embrace. Lobo, they had called him, which made everyone laugh because he was nothing but joyful fluff and bones. But borders and trunks and weekly motels are not good places for dogs. In patchy crayon, a picture of the LOST DOG drawn in a child’s hand. Maria prized the sign tenderly from the paint-peeled boards. Driving away, she rolled up her windows and howled.

Deanna Ross | Del Rey Oaks