This year’s 101 word short story contest winners do more with less in weird and wonderful ways.

They emerge from the cracks of Castroville, the pelican pouches of Pacific Grove and the side streets of Seaside once a year. They spout accounts of cats and love, death and disaster (see sidebar, p. 18) for a chance to win chilled cash and dynamite dinners. They use words like “frack,” and “foolproof,” and never exceed 101 words, having gracefully adopted abbreviated sequences of tale-telling long before John Mayer knew what Tweeting might be. They are peculiar beasts. They live among us. They are us. These are their stories.

~THE WINNERS~

1.

Big Gamer

UPS delivered Brady’s immortality pill, so he dropped it in a soda per instructions and glanced at the TV while he waited for the pill to dissolve. “We are facing an unparalleled crisis,” some president dude was saying. “But if all of us work together we can find a solution. We have the resources. We have the knowledge. All we lack is the political will.” The soda turned bright neon orange as promised. Brady chugged it down, chased it with cola, and returned to his computer den, ready to fight the same fake battle for the next 100 years.

2.

Listening by Heart

Margarethad just overcome agoraphobia when her husband, Tom, returned from Afghanistan. The doctors didn’t know why Tom talked to himself and chalked it up as another byproduct of war.Margaret felt the universe was testing her; she imagined derisive stares and stifled laughter directed to her husband as they walked through town.She was about to succumb to her old fear until she found a broken Bluetooth earpiece in the road. She dusted it off and gave it to Tom. Careful not to hurt his feelings, she kindly asked him to wear it whenever they went out in public.

3.

Smell Hell

Frack! Tammy has cooked microwave popcorn in the break room again. Doesn’t she understand that she is permeating our workplace with the smell of a movie theater? Why is she oblivious to the other employees that work in this office? Sure she offers everyone a few popped kernels, but it drives me crazy. Microwave popcorn should be banned from employee break rooms. I slipped an anonymous note in Tammy’s mail box, “Microwave popcorn stinks up the office.” Tammy was silent for 10 days. We were popcorn free. Eleven days later I had a note in my inbox, “You have bad breath.”

~HONORABLE MENTION~

Sketchy Status

Sally was frantic. Midterm exams were next week and she’d barely cracked a book. “How did this happen?” she asked. Her gray and white American short haired was more interested in stalking the daddy long legs hiding in the crevice of the window than in shedding any light on her predicament. “How did this happen?” she repeated. She’d had so many good intentions. Rise at five, run two miles, shower, then hit the books. That was going to be her modus operandi this semester. Her plan was foolproof, she thought. “How did this happen?” she again asked her Facebook friends.

Turn in the Road

Drive, she said. There was a small sly smile on her lips, and her eyes searched his. She kissed him again, lightly this time. He smiled too, and drew back across the console. He sat up and settled in the seat, fastened his seatbelt, turned the key. She sat around to face front, then turned a bit away to open the window. He put the car into drive and steered onto the street. He tried to turn his mind back to driving, to navigating, to avoiding and aiming, and at the same time considering. He considered places; she considered names.

Throaty Voice

How ironic, he thought, his mind reeling wildly as his glottis spasmed and clamped vice-like on the spiny obstruction which was now lodged horizontally, buried deep in the ribbed tubing of his esophagus. An apologetic fist wailed fruitlessly on his upper back. He assumed by the force being applied that it was the waiter’s knuckles that were breaking his ribs accidentally, and not those of his panicked wife. With no breath coming, his eyes fixed in a shocked gaze on the small dish of lemon aioli and its delicious, thistly consort, the local fare. “My name is Arthur, and I’ve choked.”

Wet Wipe

Billy Crawford didn’t notice the large tattooed man leaning against the coffee bar behind him also waiting for the bathroom. Billy walked in, unzipped his fly and peed on the toilet seat; some managing to find the bowl with a splash. Billy snickered at the thought of an old lady having to sit in his piss as he zipped his fly, opened the door, still not noticing as the next customer took his turn at the commode. Billy noticed when a huge tattooed paw gripped a handful of his hair, dragged him backwards and began cleaning the seat with his face.

Motor Running

Detroit is the end of the world, American-style. I’ve seen homeless dogs hunt pheasant there. One night I noticed two German Sheppard guard dogs that were starving. I went to a nearby White Castle. There, about a dozen people smiled and welcomed me. A Yemeni man was behind the counter with an open book and pen. He smiled, said “One moment,” then facing a woman, said, “OK Clara, we can begin another $20 credit today.” Not only was this man selling 57 cent hamburgers, he was a credit union for the poorest of the poor.

Dead Right

For a long time, he just lay there in the box. Not heaven, not hell, not what he expected. Sealed in, he lay until a tiny fault, a gap, a bit of air and dirt, a bit of moisture, and he could begin to decompose. As he rotted and was eaten, his stuff passed out of the casket, and he did too. As his molecules escaped into the air, his awareness spread through the atmosphere. When some atoms wandered out beyond gravity, he did too. And when his hydrogen atom was fused with another in a star, he was too.

Going South

I board the white bus that takes workers to the fields. So many of the men and women are motivated, sincere and exceptionally strong. I am skilled at farm and livestock management. Now I mostly pick lettuce. On my days off I mow lawns and rake private homes. If there is digging to do, I am asked. I feed roses and amend California soil. My Grandfather is dying in Mexico on his ranch, with his dirt under his nails. I am too poor to go to him, so I will cry in my hands. I am homesick in King City, CA.

Fiery Salvation

My lighter is lost in the abyss of polyester that is my coat pocket. The hole in the lining of the pocket feeds on all things critical to my life. Change for the meter, car keys, even my cell phone. All items which are trivial in comparison to my lighter. That lighter saves lives. It saved Doug’s life when he asked me to work late last Friday. It saved that punk kid in IT who likes to call me “Pops.” Today it’s saving Harold and his bad breath caused by gingivitis. My fingers finally clasp the plastic treasure. Another life saved.

Cold Case

The fresh-faced docent told us sepia-tinted tales of Al Capone and the Birdman, prisoners living in 9x5 foot cells, murderers working in the laundry, and the guards’ children taking the ferry to school. The history of Alcatraz flickered before us like a period newsreel. Then, a full color detail: prisoners learning to sleep on their backs with their hands visible above the covers. For an instant, there is a rush of sympathy as I imagine the freshly convicted new arrival made a boy again by sleep: vulnerable, his hands curled like shells beneath his pillow.

Freeze Frame

The last painting hung, as always, on the south wall, corridor 6, gallery 17. The curators removing exhibits took down other paintings, placed them in sleeves, then crates. What remained, proving the painting had not been alone, were faint square and rectangular scuffs that ringed the room. It was as it always had been; paintings coming, going, enhancing the last painting’s beauty by their meager presence. The last painting’s perspective never changed. It only saw the north wall, the velvet stanchions, the admirers. It longed to be stolen, taken to a home in some no-extradition country, just to change the view.

Rebuilt Engine

Joe pulled the dirty spark plug from the Chevy Impala and blew into the coil. “I quit beer drinkin’. Found God,” he said dropping a cigarette into a cup of cold coffee on the engine block. A flock of geese headed south overhead. Beyond the scattered truck-bones in the yard, a dog howled. Fred leaned in and protested, “What did’ya do a thing like that for?” Joe pulled off his cap and scratched his thinning hair, “God’s been talking to me. Telling me things.” Leaning closer Fred asked, “What’s he been sayin’?” Joe looked to the winter sky and remarked, “Well, I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

Flowing

On the Gambia River ferry I wore sunglasses to hide my tears. “Your shoe broken.” The squatting black man smiled at me, and began to sew my sandal so expertly that I barely felt his touch. I saw a crowd of Africans thoroughly entertained by the sight of this white woman having her sandal repaired while it remained on her foot. “How much?” I asked as he stood. “Thousand.” “Eight hundred,” I countered, gaining strength. “Yes,” he said, and shook my hand. The people smiled in approval as we landed on the opposite bank of the river.

Young Innocence, Old Guilt

“Mom, can I tell you a joke?” “Sure, honey.” “Why did the barbeque cross the road?” “I don’t know, why?” “To get to the CHICKEN!” I laughed again, thinking it was just as funny this time. My sweet 4 year old crawled up on my lap. “Mom, when is dad getting here?” It was Wednesday night, 30 minutes past the scheduled pick up time. “I don’t know, babe.” I did know. It was why I’d left. He called at 7:30, after bedtime. I’m sure he would explain. “Hello.” I could smell the brandy before the first word was said.

Why Not

I know what I am not. Life passed me by, just a blur. So, I ran to catch up with it. While in pursuit, I noticed I had been running adjacent to a mirror. So, I broke the mirror. That’s why I’m not normal.

The Pakistani-Irish-Colombian-Australian-Chinese-Uzbek

It’s going to take at least nine generations. Say a Mongolian breeds with a Russian, and that baby impregnates a Malawi. Their offspring falls for an Italian-Jordanian-Swede, and their child spawns with a Pakistani-Irish-Colombian-Australian-Chinese-Uzbek. And so on, each successive offspring breeding with someone of as many mutually exclusive nationalities. The ninth-generation scion, with the blood of all 192 U.N. member nations, will be a global unifier, a legend brighter than Obama or Mandela. But how to orchestrate the international hookups quickly – before the border reconfigurations mess up the math? (Quebec, Palestine, I’m looking at you.) World peace depends on a clone job.

Una Historia

El hombre y la mujer sentaban parados en frente de la oficina del notario publico. “Porqué estás haciendo esto?” “Yo no te amo mas. No tengo más amor dentro de mi para ti. Ya no existe amor entre nosotros.” El miró los ojos verdes esmeraldas de ella. Los mismos ojos que él miró años atrás cuando él tomó su inocencia. El dió una Mirada al espejo y vió su masculinidad por primera vez. Cuando él era un niño, el vío a su madre llorar. Muy asustado para acercarse, él la miró por detras de la silla de la cocina. “No más amor. No más amor.” El nunca se atrevida preguntarle que pasó. Cuando él se fue a la cama, él escucho las palabras de su madre. El supo lo que significaba.

Almost Full

Our mother kept us fed the way a farmer would keep livestock healthy. We ate bland foods that could not easily be given to the dog under the table, oatmeal for breakfast and a large bowl of soybeans for dinner. One morning our neighbor came to the door, and complained about masses of sticky food she had found on her roses. My brothers and I hid in a closet and listened fearfully as mom knocked brother John around his room for a long time. That evening our father came home early, and we went for our first dinner at McDonald’s.

Found in Translation

I was the exchange student tired of hearing how intercultural education would improve global understanding. I spoke only the indigenous language. I wore the native costume. I ate unidentifiable meat products. Now, after two months, I wanted a hot shower and refrigerated milk. I wanted to use my left hand in public. Out walking rural roads, the children see me – my white face their first – and call out the only English they know: “No smoking, please.” A girl holds out her hand. “Ikut. (Follow.)” Our destination: ice cream. At last, a universal. Why does something cold make me so much warmer?

Cannery Death Row

“The Queen is Dead, Long Live the Queen!,” Lobster John howled as he played a drum as a group of Bohemian types walked the bike trail that cold sunny Sunday to the back of the old Café Ida that was Kalisa Moore’s old home base. I attempted to keep rhythm on a tambourine while people gave tribute with stories of her observed adventures. Later that evening, the ceremony continued with beautiful music, beautiful belly dancing, and beautiful people. It was quite a remembrance and I think Kalisa would have been proud. Sadly, Cannery Row will never be the same.

Family Style

My ex-husband’s mother, and her charming, but unrealistic spouse invited me, and her grandchildren, to spend Christmas Eve at their house. Having spent every holiday there, being offered punch and English toffee, for the past 10 years, you might think I would have been delighted at the prospect. But here, in the sanctity of the house my children and I rented alone in May, away from alcohol-induced tirades, and words seething with cruelty and humiliation, we have a new tradition. It’s called happiness. I have been told they are inviting everyone, including the new fiancé. I’ve heard she likes punch.

Old Growth

Mama always said not to go climbing trees without shoes. Most of the time, I listened to her. Except in summer, when the sun leaned on the earth; my shoes seemed far away and the gray-green trees seemed cool and close, I shimmied up barefoot. I hung upside down, right-side up and clambered up the highest branch, watching the sun angle through the leaves until the sky burnished orange and rust. My mama called for dinner, distant as a train whistle. I slid down the tree and landed on a chunk of broken beer bottle, slicing my sole. Somehow she knew.

Near Angel

She came in through the back door when the front doorbell went unanswered. Her father was deep asleep in his chair, probably started work before sunrise, throwing himself into ranch chores ever since his wife died suddenly one year, four months, 19 days ago. His hearing aids were lying on the table, like two tiny cockleshells. He refused to wear them; his big ol’ mangled fingers couldn’t manipulate the minuscule knobs. She set down the tamale pie he loved, though the daughter’s wasn’t quite as good as the mother’s. She said softly, “Bye Daddy,” and left. His eyes teared. “Bye sweetheart.”

Tropical Crunch

Jeffro told me his story of survival on Skype a few weeks after the Tsunami hit Samoa. He was warning people when the first wave hit. The water was so strong it ripped off his pants. He swam as he dodged and hit debris. Before he knew it, he was floating on a mattress in a hotel room against the ceiling. He heard voices and punched through the wallboard and screamed “Don’t let me die!” The people tied bed sheets together and pulled him up. They gave him board shorts. The last thing he remembers is seeing his wife’s face.