>>HONORABLEMENTION

BREAKFAST

The secret war between Eggs and Donuts would remain an unknown chapter in 1960s Americana but for the careful drawings of an astute 6-year-old. Thanks to his records we now know how the plucky Eggs (always in the process of hatching) finally brought the relentless Donut production line to a standstill, and how close they came to colonizing the moon. Alas, victory proved elusive, for the treachery of Donuts (charming, gaping hole in center) knows no limits. Some say the war has shifted underground into the murk of human society. Wise readers will consider to which camp they belong.

Tom Rebold / Marina

GROWING PAINS

Tommy and Sally crouch on the darkened staircase. They peer between the railings into the living room below. The Christmas tree lights cast a warm glow. Their parents move about, whispering and chuckling softly, as they place gifts and fill stockings. “It is them,” Tommy mutters. Sally takes his hand. “You’re getting the scooter.” Tears well in Tommy’s eyes and spill onto his cheeks. “It is them.”

Martin Dodd / Salinas

A BUG’S DEATH

The termite children were excited. A tent was going up over their home. “Is it the circus?” they asked their nannies. “Will there be lions and clowns and high-wire acts?” they squealed, compound eyes glistening. The nannies nodded sadly and called out, “Come little ones. Your mother the Queen wishes to see you.” Gathering up all the shiny white larvae in strong but gentle mandibles, they filed down the well-worn tunnel to the great hall of the Queen. “Gather round, my children,” the Queen said softly. Then she sang them a sweet song about the end of the world.

Lawrence Petersen / Monterey

ONE MORNING

Kathryn, a customer who had worn Vera Wang the night before, approached Wendy at a Wal-Mart register, noting the cashier’s dance to stand on throbbing feet without searing pain going through the spirit. “Your feet must hurt,” Kathryn said. Wendy grabbed her wrist. “You know, sister!” Sister didn’t really, but for one brief moment Wendy wasn’t invisible, wasn’t ignored, wasn’t alone and that made the difference.

Ann Malokas / Marina

SNOW REPORTS

Alex pulled a Rossignol across his lap. Beautiful. Like when they were new. March 18, 1976, his twentieth birthday. Picturing frosted tree-lined corridors, first tracks in morning powder, he drew a wax stick across the hot iron. It sputtered an acid smell into the garage air as he waxed the ski into a mirror—his eye, a bony cheek, the scar. He stood the finished ski next to its mate. His legs ached. Snow reports did that. He grabbed his pant legs, clenching his teeth. Then he let the phantom legs free-fall and wheeled himself up the ramp into the house.

C. Lee McKenzie / Los Gatos

VIOLENT BECKONING

The shattering hiss of her rattle broke the silence like a gunshot. A blow of panic lunged from his stomach to his throat. There, on the right side of the trail, he saw her coiled, deadly, black diamond beauty. She was pure menace and lethality. He knew his handgun could render her instantly into a bloody mush. But he had engaged deadly beauty before…to his everlasting regret. And so he had learned. He declined her invitation, and passed, slowly, gingerly, by pushing up against the dense manzanita just opposite her. To the salvation of them both.

Carl A. Mounteer / Pacific Grove

LOTTO

I tell my wife, I’m not a smoker, I don’t drink, I’m allowed one indulgence. And she should be glad, persistence always being rewarded by prosperity. That day, that particular day, I knew I would win. I greeted the clerk, as always, then chose my numbers—her birthday and our son’s. But “the usual” ends there. I knew then, as if by looking at a calendar: if all the other days were white squares, today was a black one. That is how distinctly I knew. Now my wife will say, you only won seventeen dollars, that does not defray the cost of playing. And that is true. But to have felt that feeling—to have suspected in advance that I would win—that was worth a million.

James Langston / San Francisco

GONE

She made a pudding of young nettles. Outside mud walls, the leaves turned fire-colors even as sun’s light died. She knew the words to speak, the way to curl the fingers of her gesticulating hands. Hoof-beats shook the trail below and torch-light made trees dance within their shadows. A south wind, scented with the valley and the village, flapped the ragged curtains and twisted the rising steam above the pot. The men’s voices were confused and echoed off the mountain, dispersing as if carried off by birds. Then only night-sounds and starlight played about the forest hilltop.

Lawrence Petersen / Monterey

THE UMP BALKS

The first pitch caught the corner. “Strike!” The next, just like it, he called, “Ball.” I snatched my catcher’s throw and looked skyward. “Same pitch,” I muttered, turning toward the mound, miffed by his inconsistency. “You’re outta here.” I looked. He was charging the hill, tearing at his mask. “You can’t say that.” I think he spat. “What?” “You called me a son-of-a-bitch.” “I said, ‘Same pitch.’” It was. I pled. He doubted. I pledged. He shrugged and ordered me to take the mound, then strode back to home plate. “One and one,” he proclaimed donning his mask. “S.O.B.,” I thought.

Harvey Schrier / Monterey

THE GIFT

Walking to Worden’s market to buy bread for her mother, she hoped Brad wouldn’t be working there today. It would be awkward; he had a crush on her. But there he was, shyly anxious to wait on her. She got the bread herself, then pointed at foil-wrapped peppermint candies in a case, saying she wanted two. As she paid him, their fingers touched, startling her. Going home, still flushed, she reached into the bag of candies. There were three. She ate only two. The third she’d save for him.

John Keefauver / Carmel

THE SETTLEMENT

“Can I keep the pen?” Sure, Martha’s lawyer said. Great, thought Jack. Seventeen years of marriage and I get a piano and a pen. Jack had the piano moved to his trailer. She kept the cat. He sat there, the walls of the trailer closing in on him. Gently, his fingers dawdled at the keyboard. It came to him: Blind Alley. Blind Alley, no place to run, feels like a failure, this life’s just begun. Later, he played the blues tune for a friend who was amazed. “Jack,” Mario said, “you can sell that tune.” And he did.

G. Robert Smith / Santa Monica

POWER OF SUGGESTION

My father-in-law, a top-notch Captain in the British Royal Navy, decided, after retirement, to become a dairy farmer. Bad choice. To impress the neighborhood, he had his delivery van painted one color on one side and a different color on the other with the same lettering, giving the impression that he had two vans, and thus business must be good. Later, his son did not want neighbors to realize that he and his wife were successful enough to afford two cars so he purchased identical red Ford Fiestas to let everyone think they just had one car.

E. Hardy Pelham / Monterey