Love and Death in Brief

Blame it on the passions inspired by a trying moment in history. It was a difficult year marked by more war and bad politics—the Weekly’s reader-writers, participating in our annual mini-literary event, responded with a remarkable collection of laudable efforts.

We received fewer funny stories this year; fewer stories with a hidden clever trick. We received more stories about real romance, about husbands, wives and lovers, more stories about suffering and death. It just happened that way. Who knows why such things happen?

The stories were so good that the judging this year evolved into a three-staged process. In the end, all seven judges agreed on a winner, as well as four runners-up and another dozen worthy of honorable mention, and another 30 worthy of publication here.

Congratulations to winner Carolyn Mary Kleefeld of Big Sur, and runners-up Ken Jones of Pacific Grove, Karla McLaren of Marina, Harvey Schrier of Monterey and Elissa Rashkin of Pacific Grove.

—Eric Johnson

WINNER

Already Alone
That night the exchange between them had been so intense, it felt as if they had breathed their last breath of passion. Finally, they had agreed, it was over. Gabriel had said, “I’ll get out of your way.” Amanda, lying on a divan across from him, thought she should have been relieved. After all, she had been driving him away for months. But instead, she found herself staring at her feet and thinking how small they looked, how small she was, how there was nowhere she wanted to go, nothing she wanted to do, nor anyone else she wanted to see. —Carolyn Mary Kleefeld, Big Sur

RUNNERS-UP

Christmas Eve
She held the little package in her lap. A book about a sailboat. He’ll love it, she thought, glancing back at her sleeping son. It hadn’t been a bad year, really. Things could be worse. Lights from a passing car glared briefly through the fogged windows as she tucked the blanket around her son’s chin. He stirred. “Is it morning?” “Not yet, dear. Back to sleep now.” The boy yawned and returned to his dreams. Next year I’ll find a job, she promised herself, and gently put the package beside the green pipe cleaner Christmas tree on the dashboard. —Ken Jones, Pacific Grove

The One
There were too many men to count, she thought, as she watched this one sleeping. He didn’t come right out and ask for numbers, for stats—but he did murmur before sinking into sleep that he had never found a more perfect fit. That was a comparison, right? Which meant the stats question was hovering, lurking. She tried to count once, but gave up at thirty. She could not bear the label. Now she wondered if she was actually an epicure or an explorer, searching, tasting, ever seeking the perfect fit? Perhaps no other man counted at all, until tonight. —Karla McLaren, Marina

On A Train
The cold above had driven the forlorn figure beneath the streets. His eyes floated in rheumy goo, tiny blue discs barely visible through the folds of inflamed tissue that swelled them nearly shut. The left, I think, teared relentlessly. I watched him sit on the train, barely moving, seemingly oblivious to the irritation. I wondered if he’d given up, simply stopped caring about himself, wretched as he appeared. I thought he saw me watching when he deliberately raised a hand, scaly and swollen from the cold, and with a gentle caress carefully swabbed the tears from beneath the afflicted eye. —Harvey Schrier, Monterey

The Stain
The world spun off its axis; it wasn’t my fault. I got off the airplane and went straight to where I’d been advised to go. The transaction was simple, the solid metal felt good in my pocket. Businessmen, scarves wrapped tight against the fall air, walked to and fro. Paper cups warmed their gloved hands. Not even a cloud overhead, I thought, stepping over the barriers onto bare earth mixed with rubble. Then one appeared. One gray cloud staining the sky. I took out the gun and fired. The cloud vanished; the last thing I saw was blue, just blue. —Elissa Rashkin, Pacific Grove

HONORABLE MENTION

The Warrior
It just seemed like it was one of those days out of time. I remember this unusual California desert heat just unleashing on Northern Minnesota in April. It cracked arteries in the ice on the lakes. And I am sitting in the back seat and I looked into the rear view mirror. I never had seen my dad cry before. When we got to the cemetery, there was a military gun salute for his brother. I’ve seen people on television react when they hear the shots. It jolted me, too. That was my first and only funeral. —Shawn Tiberious Boyle, Pacific Grove

Late Night Call
She moaned but someone else occupied his mind. He thought about nights with her when he’d struggle to prolong things. Ironic, now, as he fought to let go but couldn’t. His present lover interrupted the image of his absent love, nullifying his passion. Then the phone rang. “Don’t answer,” she breathed, groping to restrain him as he, feigning frustration, sighed with resignation and reached for the receiver. “I’m a doctor,” he lied, assuming she’d understand. “Hello?” “Hello.” She was there. His breathing cinched up, he labored to control his exhalation. “Oh, hello,” he whispered. “I was just thinking about you.” —Harvey Schrier, Monterey

Some Nostalgia
I can remember playing baseball at the dead end up the street from our homes. Sure, I can remember talking about the hotties at school. And, of course, I remember our first concerts. Yeah, I can remember when we all would get together, throw a few [hundred] back and play hours of pool. I can remember talking about all the excitement we had when we were younger and how we missed “the old times.” I remember the girlfriends...the weddings...the kids. I remember the drifting apart. And now I remember wishing I could forget how fast time went by. —Tommy Bruno, Monterey

Ironing Pile
Once a summer, the ironing pile diminishes: steamy iron sailing over usually cotton cloth. Listening to classical music and ironing are soothing activities. My mind wanders as I press each wrinkle–daydreaming of my son in Africa, the ebb and flow of my daughter’s life as she explores the ocean, whether or not I will move to Sacramento... Once teaching begins, there is no time for this freedom, and the ironing pile grows. Sometimes I awaken in the night to see its hulking silhouette, and I am certain that a hunchbacked crazy man has broken into my house to kill me.  —Cynthia L. Fowler, Salinas

Driving Livermore
I’m sinking and it hurts. Yesterday, from Basra, my wife told me once again that I was the only thing she really saw before leaving home. I can’t believe that. I didn’t ask her to be unhappy. I thought it through. I drive around these malls and look for faces, but only see litter on the ground. The vineyards I drive past stretch for miles into the barren hills. A crazed lady walks the streets shouting to herself. She scares my children. We’ll have thanksgiving when their mom gets home—if she does. This road...it’s here that I break bread. —Samuel Salerno, Jr., Pacific Grove

The Eternal Sea
Most all of the pain had subsided. The intense worries of the scrambled-together, recent weeks altered in perspective to mere trickles of mild interest. An overwhelming affection for humanity swept through his consciousness as he gazed down upon the creaking, beat-up body that he had called home. Delicious light, indolent breezes, and loving whispers from long ago days-gone-by caressed his attention, hovered for a comforting moment, then slipped effortlessly away. ...and then the return of an old friend...the ancient murmur of the ocean beckoning him onward; the thrum of welcoming waves pulsing against the glistening shore. —Mike Frecceri, Carmel

Breaking Apart
This would be so much easier if you were dead. If you were, I could cling to your memory, instead of knowing that you are now choosing men who are nothing like me. Or if you were in a coma, I could sing to the still, closed eyes of a face I always loved. It might even be pleasant to battle intractably, because then I could remember to hate you—instead of endlessly wondering why it is the other way around. But best of all would be to find a way to not have to kill us to save me. —Jasper Whittenburg, Marina

Love Among the Gnomes
I don’t know where the gnomes came from, but they came. I tried driving them off, but they’re tough. I told people I didn’t make the gnome village crap. Why lie, friends asked and stayed away. Then my writing sold; life’s better. One day a knock on my door. Beautiful and Czech she said the gnomes saved her grandfather from the Nazis. I was skeptical, but let her in. She wandered the gnomes’ town cleaning and sweetly talking to them. I thought she was nuts. She wasn’t. She cooked dinner; I listened. She came back again. Now she lives here too... —Scott Dick, Carmel Valley

Scene at a Diner
I sat there wondering if it upset her as much as it had the others to see me wearing my unfulfilled “potential” on my sleeve, wanting for some charming devil to steal it away. “So...” she said, looking at me with her expectant brown eyes, “What’s next?” “Course wise?” I responded. “Because I was thinking about a deliciously greasy batch of curly fries.” She sighed deeply. “I meant with your life...but I guess that’s a ‘nothing much.’” “Geez...everybody else has realized that I’ve changed. Why can’t you?” “They haven’t realized anything,” she said, bitterly. “They’ve given up on you.” —Christine Castro, Gonzales

In Her Woods
The crimes of her eyes flashed freely, undefined. The colors of her illusions filled the forest with sweet, haunting music. I sat listening, with untangled ears to the whore like dawns dancing from her lips. With a grand, sweeping gesture she smiled at my foolishness. With another grand sweeping gesture she extinguished my hateful hunger. And Time, that heaviest of human nightmares, ceased to be, there beside the dream-laden river beneath the silky and silver sky of twilight. Neither fulfilled nor kept waiting, I wallowed like a child beneath the tree limbs of her gaze, where tiny fantasies, like little ghosts, flitted about, mostly unseen. —David Wayne Dunn, Big Sur

The Kid
Driving in my van, I saw him at the corner and slowed to see if he would cross. A young man, long hair, jeans, with a large backpack. Someone on the road...a traveler, a hitcher. He was out by himself searching for adventure, for some truths...for himself. He was tall and thin and pale with downcast eyes. Standing on the curb, he hesitated and glanced up and down the street. He looked concerned, unsure, slightly lost. He looked like me so many years ago. I wanted to turn around, go back...tell him which way to go. —Will Gibson, Pacific Grove

A Soldier’s Story
They gave him a flagged crusade, uniform, rifle, cheery wave good-bye, and unwaveringly waved him off to war, wrapped in red, white, and blue, mom, apple pie, with a tear in his all-too-clear eye, and an all-expenses-to-be-individually-paid-for ticket to ride in a tin-can Hummer that split like an atom, spit his fragmented parts in every direction but forward. Then they bagged his remains in a homeward-bound box in a cold cargo hold, processed, as if he were meat. And welcomed him home with Taps, like chimes at midnight. —William Wall, Pacific Grove

A Sad Song
The widow sat down at the piano and began to play. She coaxed her husband’s soul from the immaculate instrument, her fingers dancing through the threads of his life as easily as over the polished keys. A desolate melody spoke of his quiet manner and the way his voice softened when he searched her eyes. A counterpoint, legato with grief, carried his smile to his deathbed, where breath and cancer met. She stopped, the music gently returning to the ether. The salesman’s face was wet with tears. “I’ll take it,” she said quietly, closing the cover. —Michael Fink, Marina

Southern Fascism
As she crossed the Andean ridge between Argentina and Chile, her nausea sharpened. At first, she assumed: hangover. Then she was forced to learn. For months she had traveled by land, South America on a shoestring, Columbia, Peru. The Amazonian basin, Bolivian moonscapes, jungles, ancient cities, jagged mountains, undulating plains. She drank too much Sangria, swallowed too many coca leaves. There had been brawls and earthquakes, cities jacked by protest, commerce colliding with land and flesh, altitude sickness, hubris and plunder. In Santiago, buildings were scalped of dissent. “And I thought I was fucked up,” she thought. —Tamara Jane, Salinas

Nuts
So I grab my bread and my cart runs into this other cart. This lady says “Sorry.” Only she kind of mouths it. She’s on the phone. My cart with its one loaf of bread, I just leave it in the walkway. I pull down this can of mixed nuts. Christ and horses for a cashew. None. I throw the can on the ground and the nuts spread. I stomp on the nuts. I crush them into little bits. On the sidewalk there’s this woman ringing a bell. She says “Change sir?” And I say “Yes.” And I keep walking. —Lawrence Lawson, Monterey

Going South
At one-thirty-seven in the afternoon I left. Gave notice to my boss by voice mail. Told my wife goodbye on our home answering machine. Phoned my folks—they weren’t home but my sister answered. “Would you please leave them a note for me, Mel?” By five-thirty-seven I’d sold my car and boarded a plane for Mexico. I often dreamed of living in the coastal jungles of Mexico: the sun and the sombreros; the sea and the sangria; the salsa and the senoritas. Even took some Spanish at community college once. It felt good—leaving. —Mark C. Angel, Carmel Valley

Generations’ Tears
A story waiting to be born, buried deep inside, that it takes years, sometimes generations, for the story to claw its way out of darkness. This story got lost in the veins of your grandpapa and trapped in the bones of your great-grandmother. Abandoned and forgotten, the silent story shakes and rattles the very core of your soul. Until one day, the ancestor winds howl and moan through the ancient caves of your memory. You, the chosen one, become the holy vessel of remembrance and you weep the story that has never been told. —Reda Rackley, Carmel Valley

Ugly Americans
She stood at my door, shriveled, eyes sunken. She said she came to Cameroon to sing to children. I nodded, smiled, and wanted her quickly gone. Sometimes, drinking beers with fellow ex-pats, I’d see her shuffling along, clutching her guitar. Not once did we call her over. No, we just called her “The Bat.” And laughed. Not long afterward we heard that she had died—died of cancer. She had no family to claim her body. No lover. No friends. So they buried her in the clay ground of Bafou. And for a long while we Americans avoided each other’s eyes. —Janaka Stagnaro, Monterey

Standing Up
“So I suppose you’ll make it through this moment,” the voice sneered, as I lay reeling from my most recent loss of job, hope, money, and future. “Carry on, chin up, blah blah bleah.” But for the first time ever, instead of agreeing, head down in shame, I spat—“Yeah, like I’ve made it through this and every other moment without your help or anyone else’s, you ugly shit!” And for the first time ever, the voice retreated and recoiled—like a silent snake, like a slo-mo spring. So I rolled over and stood up, at last. —Karla McLaren, Marina

Long Mornings
Lying together in bed, mornings lasted longer and so the days seemed shorter. Autumn brought dusk earlier, and in the evenings, we recounted chores left undone. Returning to bed, we rekindled the morning’s passion and slept snugly. When circumstance separated us, mornings escaped quickly with thoughts of the day ahead. Dusk dawdled, and in tired evenings, we recounted the jobs well done. We slept restlessly and yearned for home. In our twilight now, days and nights blend, but our glorious mornings remain. We enjoy leisurely strolls, watching neighbors unknowingly submit to another day while we hold hands and savor another long morning. —Michael Whalen, Pacific Grove

God For Company
Isabella reclined in a comfortable chair, editing the written expressions of her wild imagination, fenced in only by her own stories. Nearby, Fidel strummed his guitar; his melodies mirrored the soul of the wild meadows they perched upon—high above the sea and the small village of Big Sur. Fog had now blanketed most of the town below. And the cars like mechanical toys on Highway One, zoomed ahead, buzzing like the territorial wood bees around them. Fidel remarked that the human mind can never really be still, that even the monk is in dialogue, bringing his own god for company. —Carolyn Mary Kleefeld, Big Sur

Birthday in California
The full moon illuminates the dunes as she sneaks past the lifeguard station. The beach closed after sunset, but she’s been out of the water for 12 years and simply cannot wait until morning. She’s 47 years old today and has been back in California for less than eight hours. Everything she owns, including her two cats, is in the U-Haul parked down the road. She hits the beach in a full run, paddles out past the breakers, turns and sits quietly. She has no clue what California will bring her this time. But for now, all is right in the world. —Dane Holland, Salinas

Popped Balloon
He has tasted defeat before. He has endured the slings and arrows of people’s perceptions and judgments. He has been the punching bag, the rag doll, the trampoline, and the reason. He’s presently the disappointment, the frustration, the unfulfilled expectation of what people want him to be. And through it all he remains to be the wounded healer in the lighthouse, shining his light in the infinite desert sea. But none of it compares to when she suddenly appears and changes his direction. Drifting away over the swell of dunes he goes: “Yes, Barkeep, I’ll have another.” —Shawn Tiberious Boyle, Pacific Grove

Christmas Boxes
The phone landed in a motion between a quiver and a slam. “Granny’s bringing a boyfriend to Christmas.” “Strange, but what’s wrong with that?” “She too old for a boyfriend. It’s indecent. It’s bad for the children.” “What?” “She’s sleeping with him!” “Granny told you they were sleeping together?” “Yes. His name is Pedro.” “A gardener?” “Don’t be racist.” “Don’t be elder-sex-adverse.” “Don’t talk to me.” “She’s your mother.” “Don’t talk to me.” The house became Mt. St. Helen’s with garlands. Christmas arrived. Granny arrived smiling. “Merry Christmas! Let me introduce you to Pedro, my darling Chihuahua.” —L. Riley, Carmel

Bad Memories
My watch says 2am but my mind says 1972. When I close my eyes, I hear my loud and angry voice. I was teaching my mother how to drive and she had just run into a parked car. I’m yelling and she is crying. That’s what’s filling my head this Easter morning as I sit on the floor next to my mother’s bed. The only sounds that register are the ticking of the wall clock in the next room, the rain on the window sill and my mother’s last breaths. Dad’s holding her hand and I’m holding my head. —Geir Bakke, Pacific Grove

A Bastard’s Worries
It’s Christmas Eve. I’m sitting by the fireplace, holding a tumbler of good Scotch in the afterglow of another fantastic dinner. I love my wife. So why do I risk it? The kids called earlier. They’re fine. My wife of thirty years is in the kitchen, making homey noises. My God. If she knew, it would kill her. I have to end it. The fire’s out now, my glass is empty, my wife’s asleep. I think of her; wonder what she’s doing. I’ll call next week; tell her it’s over. I envision her smile. Maybe I’ll call her tonight. —Ken Jones, Pacific Grove

A Wild Woman
It took over a hundred years to find the body, and they still didn’t get the story straight. The decaying buckskin barely held together the skeletal remains found near the interstate, a former stagecoach route. Nearby, workers found the gun, a whiskey bottle, and—curiously—a toothbrush. Anthropologists from the university hypothesized that this was a homicide scene: a highwayman shot while waiting to ambush unsuspecting travelers. The sun-bleached pelvic bone told another story: this would-be assassin had given birth—probably more than once. Perhaps the bullet that cracked her rib only bruised a heart that was already broken. —Nancy Hunt, Monterey

The Date
God, she’s beautiful. Greg gazed at his date, “So, I got invited on this kayak tour in Colorado. Wanna come?” She picked at her food, “Oh, yeah, that sounds wonderful. You should go.” “Um, yeah, ok.” He could take a hint, in fact, that was a full-on dis. Did she think that he wouldn’t go if she didn’t come? Does she think I’m desperate? Greg almost choked on his food at the thought. I’m not desperate! He glanced at all the other people. He wanted decent conversation and company. Then his gaze landed back on his date. God, she’s beautiful. —Rachel Baumann, Salinas

A Modest Request
Dear Santa: When she’s not streetwalking, Mommy works part-time at Wal-Mart, rolling back. As part of his parole agreement, Daddy shipped out with his Uncle Sam and never came back. Aunt Mary’s on smack and her boyfriend, Uncle Jack, plays hide-the-banana in my banana boat shack. The roaches ride piggyback on the rats that ate my cat, and my crystal-meth-making neighbor’s pit bull, Zack, thinks I’m a snack. So all I want for Christmas is a Mack. Or maybe a MAC-10. And an ammunition rack. —William Wall, Pacific Grove

Fair Exchange
Five years since we talked, Betsy and I. Still lovely of face and voice. “I’m fine, Bill. And you?” “OK. Good, actually. Granddaughter’s flying on skates.” “Bill, one question. You never asked me out. Why?” THAT question. “Betsy, you had me at Hello in 1967. (Laughter.) When I met you again I also met your wonderful family. You had high, worthwhile dreams. I decided why risk asking you, if No ended a friendship with you AND your family? So I kept loving you to myself so that I could love you all as a family. 35 years now.” She looked. “Oh—but didn’t you—” “Betsy, in realizing your dreams, you inspired me too. And friendship remains. A fair exchange.” “Grandpa, I’m ready.” “Sure, granddaughter. Betsy, gotta go. Best of love and luck.” “Bill, best of luck and love.” —William Cleveland, Monterey