Hearts and souls, tears and laughter, in 101 words (or less).

Apparently, this thing is unique. It’s its own art form. And it’s our very own thing. We believe the Weekly’s annual 101 Word Short Story Contest results in the best, shortest fiction being written anywhere.

The magazine Writer’s Digest runs a Short Short Story Contest, but last year’s winner was 967 words long. That’s not that short. Our readers are finding a way to fit a lot of drama into a very small space. And I think you will agree that there’s something uniquely beautiful about it.

This year we received a record number of entries—249, discounting one that we believe was a total rip-off of an old Internet joke. These went through three rounds of judging. In the final round, four judges were asked to choose their favorite four stories from the top 11 vote-getters, and rank them. All four judges chose the same story as the best of the bunch.

Congratulations to Michael Thomas of Monterey, who will receive a check for $101. Congratulations also to runners-up Maria Garcia Tabor and Marion Besmehn, who will receive gift certificates to local restaurants, and to second-runners-up Justin Klineman and Michael Whalen, as well as the 31 Honorable Mention winners, whose stories appear below.

—Eric Johnson

Grand Prize Winner

A Pleasant Larceny
He’d tried to be nice. He was raised to be nice. But nice cut two ways. People said you were nice, in a way that meant colorless. Nice got you only so far in business; that was clear. Nice meant, to some extent, predictable.  He could almost understand what his ex-wife had meant, during the throes of the divorce, when she said he was too damned nice.  But nice wasn’t all bad. Strangers liked nice. Nice got you good customer service, too.  “Put the money in the bag,” he said to the teller. “Please.”  —Michael Thomas / Monterey

Runners-Up

Jesusgirl
Should have made love when they first dated, back before his Ph. D., but Jesusgirl wouldn’t. She moved away, sang in a punk band, dated a painter. Loved his smell of turpentine. Years passed. The doctor distinguished himself with cows. She became a poet. Wrote sporadic letters. Both married others. The doctor visited when she was three months pregnant. Same smell of persimmons. Pursued her via e-mail. She resisted, had her baby. His letters shifted boulders inside her. He flew to see her baby, but left with her heart. Her husband discovered letters she’d saved, and mailed them to the doctor’s wife. —Maria Garcia Tabor / Salinas

Goodbye, Now
Six months ago after dinner my husband announced he only had a couple of good years left and he didn’t want to waste them on being married to me. He wanted to fish. “Let’s sleep on it, that wasn’t my best dinner.” “No, now.” “OK, do you think you could call 911—I’m hyperventilating!” “Oh, stop the dramatics, you’re fine. We’ve had a good run of 35 years. I just want peace and to go fishing.” Turns out he’d already been snagged by a 40-year-old mermaid with two teenagers. Hope she likes her fish cleaned. —Marion Besmehn / Carmel

Lessons in Refraction
Years later, as a physics student, I learned why it happened. As my mother organized her last minute Christmas purchases for the ice trek to the car, I was curiously surveying the coins at the bottom of the seemingly shallow small fountain. Reportedly, she heard the splash before she saw it. Boots, gloves, hat, oversized down jacket and my disbelieving face emerged from the water. My mother would later tell my father of her embarrassment, particularly when the four giggling nuns walked by. All I remember is the cold ride home, my father’s laughter and the taste of my first whiskey. —Michael Whalen / Pacific Grove

Brothers in Arms
I must have been on the third mile of an early afternoon run in Bidwell Park when I realized that I was surrounded by death. It had fallen from above and scattered across the earth in melancholy shades of orange and yellow. Withered souls sagged from exposed branches, waiting to be freed. I passed two old men hobbling towards each other on the edge of the path, both of them smiling. “Here we are again!” proclaimed one to the other. The tone of his voice was one of genuine surprise. —Justin Klineman / Seaside

Honorable Mention

A Romantic Corner
A carpenter and an artist met at an intersection in Old Monterey. She was nervous and babbled but he was cool and unfazed, in work clothes, casual, relaxed. His demeanor calmed her. They spoke of their lives: his business quiet over the winter, her watercolors and animation in LA that got her by. His peace found a resting place in her, as souls connected on the sidewalk, waiting. They had each sustained only superficial damage. She took responsibility. Officer Mouro arrived. Almost with regret, insurance information exchanged, they parted with a warm handshake, never to meet again in this lifetime. —Joan Doyle / Glendale

A Fundamental Misunderstanding
His first love was a Catholic lass who prized virginity highly and cautioned that the true goal of human sexuality is reproduction. Foreseeing problems, he married a Baptist who kept a scrupulous account of his sins, doubting that he had ever been saved. After the divorce, he spent years awaiting the rapture and listening to Jerry Falwell. It was later, returning from a pilgrimage to view an image of the Virgin Mary in a grilled cheese sandwich, that he heard the news bulletin: Islamic extremists, anticipating a reward of 70 virgins, had blown up another bus. “Insanity!” he muttered. “Utter delusion!” —N. Townsend / Pacific Grove

Come and Get It
Virgil sat in his chair in his house that he built, surrounded by a foundation of mortar and memories. He watched the news reports. He saw the images of rest homes and the hidden abuse. He was not going to budge for anyone; not his daughter, not his caregiver, no one. He did not live and work for 84 years to be pulled from his home to be a hushed up statistic. With feeble hands, he pulled the gun from the dresser drawer and set in on his lap. He watched the door to his room and waited. —Clark Coleman / Pacific Grove

Life and Death
“I picked these for you, grandma,” she said. “You can take them with you...you know, to put on that stone.” Her 5-year-old arms motioned to the ground in front of her. “Thank you, dear,” I sighed. I was heading out to the cemetery again. Loneliness had preoccupied me and I realized that I had been neglecting her. I reached for her humble bouquet. “Two dandelions and a daisy!” she exclaimed. My eyes filled with tears. “They’re beautiful,” I whispered. I pulled her close to embrace her, and as I did, I remembered what it was to feel peace. —Sarah Takehara / Seaside

Two Explorers
A child runs chaotic circles around a tall statue of Christopher Columbus. Christopher points west, towards his claim to fame. The child chases only himself, maturing slightly with every completed lap. Then he inexplicably breaks his circle and sprints east, defying Columbus. A group of desperate pigeons explode into the sky like a detonated firework. The boy stops alone in the middle of the plaza and watches as Columbus is consumed by pigeons. He grips the old cobblestone with his feet, closes his eyes, and extends his right arm forward, back in the direction of Christopher, suddenly full of life. —Justin Cox / Seaside

Poetic Justice
A friend of 20-plus years borrowed $500 two years ago Halloween. Having never known her to be a welsher, it was an easy check to write. Until today, I thought she was dead. Turns out she is living in Pismo Beach, and hosting her own Web site and beach blog on self-help and financial independence. She always wanted to be a writer. I guess she writes fiction. She has a link on her site to paralegal services. I wonder if I should use them to sue her. I wonder if she remembers how she spent the money. —Elise Billingsley / Monterey

Heart of a Runner
Kilometer 10 and Catherine was struggling. Her knees ached, the blisters on her feet had broken long ago and the crooked scar under her jersey pulsed and tightened with each labored breath. There was still a small crowd gathered near the finish line to cheer the remaining runners. Catherine slowed, searching out one face in the twilight. Then she saw her: a small woman cradling a picture of her teenage son. Catherine felt a surge of adrenaline and quickened her pace, holding the woman’s intense gaze. The woman smiled when Catherine raised her hand to her chest and mouthed, “He’s here.” —C. Arnott / Carmel

Temptation Taxi Co.
The fat man was walking, walking for his health, no iPod and bored to tears, when a bright yellow taxicab pulled up. The cabbie was a skinny redhead. “Need a lift?” He got in. The next day, so he could resist her, he carried no money, but she said, “You can sign for it.” He rode. Next morning he changed his route but she found him. He shook her off. She begged. “You need the ride, I need the fare.” “Give me a charge slip,” he said. He signed, adding a big tip. Walking away, he called, “Bill me.” She didn’t. —David Weinstock / Pacific Grove

Surfer Girl
Julia is lost at sea. Clinging to her surfboard, she calmly kicks further out. Her parents on their beach chairs dwindle away. The ocean swells pull her away from them. On her left breast is Julia’s new tattoo, a winged pig. Get a birthday tattoo? “When pigs fly,” her father had said. The tattoo looks blistery and stings in the saltwater. Suddenly action on the beach: parents pointing, lifeguard yelling! Julia stands on her surfboard, her delicate young body glistening. With arms and face lifted to the endless horizon, she asks for rescue from a place where there is no shore. —Susanne Oliver / Seaside

Eating Disorder
“I’ve tried everything. Went to Russia four times but came home wifeless. My therapist says I’m a catch.” “Let’s order,” said his Match.com blind date. James took a hunk of sourdough and slathered it with butter. When the salad arrived he piled it on the bread and shoved it in his mouth, never stopping to breathe. He piled the coleslaw on another hunk and shoveled it in his mouth. James licked the coleslaw container clean. His date stood, put on her coat and said as she was leaving, “Next time you see your therapist meet in a restaurant!” —Eleanor Church / Salinas

The Conversation Artist
She’s alone, hair hanging limply, hands folded in her lap, rocking in time with the bus. “No!” she snaps. “You’re not listening to me. You never listen to me!” She’s surrounded by empty seats. “This town,” she explains, “is a different town than it used to be.” Her voice is softer now, as if admonishing a child. She lapses into silence and the other passengers look hopeful, but her manic dialog begins anew. At least she’s never lonely. How many people can say that? Maybe, when the world abandons you, you have to find people who don’t belong to the world. —Ann Cooper / Cool, CA

Almost Trapped in Zealotland
I was only there for her, but charisma-man was coming on thick, and brainwashed mania shone through the gaps in their congregational smiles. “How do you like our group?” The proselytizer beamed. “Scary.” I said. “The Lord’s power scared me originally,” he agreed. How could belief reach this fervor without drugs? I had seen it before, in newsreels of saluting Nazis. Sanctimonious sweat gleamed on the preacher’s temples; the avid screamed their approval. I swiveled, counting the bodies between freedom and me. Satisfied I could fight my way out if hypodermics appeared, I felt I wouldn’t be asking her out again. —Mark Roth / Salinas

Words to Live By
When Grandfather, my hero, died, I inherited his golden key. But no one ever told me. Years later, while closing up my childhood home, I discovered an exquisitely carved box hidden inside my mother’s wall under a tool box in which she stored her diamonds. After I signed the final estate papers, my mother’s attorney handed me the tattered, yellowed envelope addressed: “For my beloved Jilly,” written in Grandfather’s jiggly handwriting. Inside was Grandfather’s golden key. It fit the lock in the carved box. Inside I discovered a fragile parchment scroll edged in gold that read: Imagination is Everything. —Lisa Meckel / Carmel Valley

Looking for Me
When I asked the psychic lady at the Renaissance Faire for insight about what my passion is with this life, she responded with asking me what I wanted to be when I was a small human. At first I wanted to be funny and just blurt out, “Ninja.” She told me to close my eyes and just truthfully mediate about it, but I didn’t need to. I easily said, “Explorer.” I didn’t know exactly of what, but the only thing I knew right then and there in that moment was that I wanted so very badly to be found. —Shawn Tiberious Boyle / Monterey

A Message From Above
Hands gripping the wheel, Nick swore at his parents. “You’ve fought for 30 years. I can’t take anymore!” Having read a psychology book, he explained how he wanted them to communicate. “Mom, you first. Something positive!” “Tell him to put his hat on, I can’t stand the sight of his bald head.” “Mother!” “[expletive deleted]!” said Dad. “See what I put up with?” Dad punched the windshield, cracking it, then opened the door onto speeding pavement. “I’ll walk!” “Look!” Nick pointed. A small plane descended into the cornfields. Not a dove, but it would have to do. They drove in silence. —Tom Rebold / Marina

Going Away
I told my son to go. He seemed so excited to have found a scholarship option that’d get him into college. Those TV ads helped him decide, I’m sure of it. Smiling at me, he’d said, “Dad, this is it. I’m going to be an engineer.” We went to the recruiting office together and he’d filled out the papers, signing his 19-year-old life over to them for two years. Boot camp. Shipped overseas. Now he’s coming home. The letter came three days ago and I’d wept. My son. The 1,000th soldier to come home on a silent aircraft. —Byron Merritt / Pacific Grove

Still Here
My feet drag, old-man like. Hell, I’m not old. It’s freezing. Can’t warm these bones. Behind overflowing dumpsters. I savor the dwindling bottle. Artificial warmth. Almost there. I’m late. Too slow. Climb the stairs heavily. Door is closed, no hushed voices emerge. Never go in anyway. Damn hypocrites. Edge alongside the tiny window obstructed by hedges. The choir starts. Face against stone. Watching. Listening. Emily loved that one. I hear her sweet soprano rising above. My heart swells. Been gone 15 years but I can hear her voice. Organ notes fade away. Shuffling homeward lighter, faster. My heart warm with Emily. —Karla Baldridge / Prunedale

Gods’ Work
“I dozed off.” “What!” “I dozed off. I mean, a millennium is a long shift to pull.” “How long were you asleep?” “Only two centuries. I left a great party to do this shift, and...” “What’s the damage?” “They’ve industrialized. They’ve taken it up to atomic fusion and space travel. If I’d been awake I would have followed procedure, but...” “Damn! They’ve gone CRITICAL! I’ll have to start over from late mammals! All My work ruined! Good thing I came to check, or We’d be fried.” As He spoke, He pressed the button marked EMERGENCY PROJECT TERMINATION.  —John Sevcik / Marina

Anniversary
Gingerly she secures a sliver comb into her white hair. Today is her 90th birthday. She recalls her life, its joys and sorrows. Smiling to herself, she remembers the boy who gave her this comb. How they danced in Paris that summer on nimble feet. They survived two world wars, family deaths and life’s hardships. A knock on the door rattles the woman from her revelry. The door opens, a hand reaches out, helping her rise from her seat. They share an intimate smile as they walk hand in hand to the celebration and the remainder of their lives. —Angela DeWitt / Marina

It’s Her Trip
Why haven’t I told him? He’ll kill me. We’ve been married 35 years and he doesn’t have a clue. I’ve got to do it. I know him, first he won’t believe me, then he’ll be so angry, and then he’ll say I’m insane. What he does after that is anyone’s guess. OK, here goes. (Hits “home” on her cell.) “Hello Honey? You know my dream has always been to go to Paris. I’ve saved enough money to go for a week. I’m leaving the day after tomorrow. You’re invited.”  —Marion Besmehn / Carmel

Counter Culture
“What’s the strangest thing that’s happened to you behind the counter?” “Hmmm. The most unusual was probably this one guy. A typical Santa Cruz type, the hair, the hat...we had already given him a croissant and he came back from the table and was kind of edging along the line, you know. Then he came up and started, like, scraping the makeup off my throat with a plastic butter knife.” “Whoa. Why?” “He said, ‘I just want some butter.’” “And then what happened?” “So I gave him a pat of butter, and he sat down.” “Weird as hell.” “Eccentric, but benevolent.” —Matt Hammond / Monterey

A New Home
The first thing she noticed was the comprehensible background noise. It had been two years since she’d spoken the same language as everyone around her. In the airport, her mind recoiled from the mindless chatter of hundreds of people speaking her native tongue. Her loud, large countrymen contrasted painfully with the contained, polite people of the world where she’d been living. Suddenly, she wanted to go home to her mouse-hole, tatami-floored apartment half a world away. Where she belonged had strangely become more foreign than the place from where she’d come. She was in between, and never the same again. —Jennifer Gregg / Monterey

The Man With a Pink Carnation
She sits alone at a cluttered table with forced indulgence, eating sardines straight from the can. The light overhead casts gangly shadows, like neglected hands across her face. There’s a knock at the door. She yanks herself up and slowly opens it. There stands a cigar-smoking little man wearing a white tuxedo and a fat, dirty smirk on his face. “Fresh as lettuce and ready to please,” he says. Somehow unsurprised, she studies him and the carnation in his lapel—pink. Hmmm. Finally she says, “You have the wrong address,” and carefully shuts the door, smiling as she turns away. —A.D. / Carmel

The Pact
She sucked air through her teeth as she withdrew the needle from her arm. Matt concentrated on keeping the lighter flame underneath a spoon. “Laura, I’m the only one who loves you. You ain’t got no one else.” Laura did not look up while she nodded. “That’s my girl. We’ll do it together.” Matt handed Laura the gun and she slowly raised it to her head. The gun barked like a dog. He watched her corpse slump to the floor. There were knocks at the door. “What’s going on in there?” “Nothing Mrs. Holtz,” said Matt as he closed his eyes. —Ashley Keels / Modesto

Berry Christmas
“What are you so tickled about?” the old man asked his smiling wife. “I found just what our grandson wants for Christmas,” she answered. “Another one of those electronic gizmos that we can’t afford? It’ll be obsolete in January and he already has a room full of wires.” “Don’t worry, dear. These hardly cost a thing.” “These! You bought more than one? You’re spoiling that boy!” “Relax, silly. Our daughter said that all he’s talked about this year is blackberries. I found some nice ones at the farmer’s market and I got him a whole pound of ‘em.” —Ken Jones / Pacific Grove

End of a Hard Day
It seemed liked a grand idea at the time. Simply go to the bathroom, open the cabinet, grab the razor, run the water for the tub, lay there, and the troubles will decease. “Karen, you alright?” “Fine go away and let me be,” her voice was quivering. “Karen let me in.” “No, go away,” she yelled. Dan banged and pushed the door open. “What the hell!” “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought, I thought.” “You thought what?” “I heard that you had a bad day.” “What, I would be in here slicing my wrist?” “Well, yeah, you have in the past, sorry.” —Francesca Guiterrez / Seaside

Life Goes On
Paul rocked on his driftwood seat. The salty breeze chilled his tears and he squinted unintentionally. Despite his own silence, the surf roared his feelings. He wanted to yell at it. He wanted to take back what it had stolen. He was lost. He fumbled the pill between his fingers and remembered what they told him. Take it and “feel better” or chuck it and “live through it.” His grief was all he had and not for a shrink or anyone else to take away. He wiped his eyes and flicked the pill into the sand. His son loved the beach. —Richard A. Avelino / Soledad

Not Letting It Happen
I’m scared as I sit on that window seat on the sixth floor, holding the baby as he paces in front of me. Rage in his eyes, teeth clenched, the knife in his hand. Hours before we were having a dinner party. Three bottles of wine later I’m choosing my death. My lip is swollen. Blood drips on our daughter’s sweater. She cries and I shoosh, shoosh her. I whisper, “Little girl don’t cry.” I’m ready to jump and...He passes out, cold...But that wasn’t the last time he beat me. Christmas Day we just pretended that night didn’t exist. —Melissa Hilton / Pacific Grove

Sixth Sense
Cheryl leaned toward the passenger window, “What are you looking for?” With a button, he unlocked the door, “Whatever 50 bucks can get me...Get in.” She looked at his untainted appearance. Glasses. Polo shirt. One hand under his thigh and one hand on the wheel. She hesitated, holding the door with a gut feeling. She closed it. “No thanks. This place is too hot, now.” “What’s the matter? Get in.” he ordered. “A C-note.” “Get out of here.” She waved him away. “Dumb broad.” He sped off, turning the corner and resting his knife in the bag. “Try again later.” —Richard A. Avelino / Soledad

Santa Dot Com
From: johnnyboy@geewizz.com
To: s.claus@npoletoys.com

Subject: teddy. Hey santa, I been good i want a nuther teddy mine lost an eyee. Johnny

From: customerservice@santacorp.com
To: johnnyboy@geewizz.com

Subject: Re: teddy. Dear Mr. Johnnyboy, GREAT HOLIDAY NEWS FOR GIFTERS! All S. Claus operations have been seamlessly integrated into SantaCorpTM Inc., the Fortune 500 Company. By leveraging supply-chain expertise in response to demand elasticity in global gifting markets, SantaCorpTM takes gifting solutions to the next level. Teddies are unavailable at this time. We recommend selection of alternative lingerie items. Happy Holidays, SantaCorpTM  Customer Service Team. THIS IS AN AUTOMATED EMAIL. DO NOT REPLY. —Christian Marechal / Monterey

A New Life
As disturbing as it was to watch mittened men spray the tree with Styrofoam, it wasn’t Dad’s insistence on a flocked Christmas tree that made Mom divorce him. Like his father, Dad was mean when he drank, and he drank continuously. The turning point came, Mom explained, when we stopped crying after he hit us. So, our first holiday without Dad began with a noble fir. No flocking. In the post-divorce economy, everything on that tree was homemade: popcorn garlands, gingerbread cookies, and aluminum foil stars. Since, we’ve understood more profoundly that Christmas also celebrates the birth of a family. —Nancy Hunt / Monterey