As if fitting it all into 101 words wasn’t enough of a challenge, this year the Weekly made your lives even more difficult. Not only did your stories have to meet that brief but iconic word count, they had to include the word “truth,” the phrase “that’s not normal,” or the name “Leon Panetta.”

More than 300 of you answered the call. There was brilliance in your brevity, along with flashes of wry humor, bizarre violence and keen insight into the human condition. In at least one untitled submission that we are opting to call “Truth,” one woman showed absolute honesty melded with grace.

Leon, we know you’re listening, and we semi-apologize for turning you into a sandwich. Please don’t extreme rendition us.

Without further ado, the winners, the runners-up and (just because we can) two editors’ choices in the 2010 101-word short story contest. – Mary Duan

WINNER

Anger and science make a dangerous cocktail. Like at MIT’s Christmas party when Beth, in a tequila-besotted rage, swiped a Q-tip inside my cheek and vowed to turn me into a fruit fly. I should have taken her seriously but I just chalked it up to professional envy and shuffled back to my bench. Today, hovering above her laptop, I watch with disbelief as Beth writes up my research as her own. And though my thoughts come more slowly now, the truth dawns on me that even in this form I can exact revenge. I dive into her frosty margarita.

RUNNER UP

“What’s on the Leon Panetta?” the Surfer asked, standing in front of the deli counter with sandy bare feet. Small bits of seaweed dangled in a bird nest of blond hair. His eyes glazed red from salt water and being stoned. The deli manager glared at the dripping mess. “That sandwich is Top Secret. I could tell you but I’d have to kill you.” “That’s cool. CIA style, I can dig it.” The surfer said, “I’ll take it on ciabatta bread with pepper jack, hold the mustard. And hurry up, my board is in the back of my truck.”

3RD PLACE

William Wing popped the dim sum into his mouth as the detective burst through the door. “You’re under arrest.” “The charge?” “Disseminating classified secrets.” The cop cuffed William. “You mean, telling the truth.” “Whatever. You won’t be hacking anymore. Rendition camp.” Wing shrugged. “Yeah. Well, if I don’t enter a code somewhere on the Internet every so often, the rest of your secrets get released.” The cop gulped. “You have more?” Wing nodded. “Trojans embedded within every intelligence agency in the world. All become active. Everything you own goes public.” William pointed to the table. “Dim sum? They’re good.”

HONORABLE MENTION

Cannery Row around 4pm today. You at a table in Ghiradelli’s with an older woman and three young children. You dripping in a chocolate negligee, with a shawl of coarsely chopped peanuts and a luxurious beret of freshly whipped cream. Me, SF in the baggy purple sweatshirt, faded butterfly tattoo on the side of my neck, and black leggings that aren’t really pants but I wear them anyway. Thought we made a connection but by the time I went inside you were gone. Call me if you’re looking for the cherry on top.

Stabbing Santa’s jugular with the sucked-sharp tip of her candy cane, Baglady Birdie smirked. “I found the perfect murder weapon.” Santa groveled. “Help!” Passerby ignored him. “Truth is, bleeding to death’s painless. You’re my fifth Santa today… no trace of evidence.” Birdie shoved the sweet spear deep into her mouth. She scooped cash from the old man’s kettle into a black trash bag bulging with Street Corner Santa’s blood money. “You’ll soon fall asleep,” she said, chuckling so hard the candy cane broke into jagged chunks. Birdie groveled. “Help!” Passerby ignored her. She choked to death on peppermint.

Mustafa Abu Yazid got into the car with four others of the Taliban. Yazid’s financial wizardry turned the raw poppies into cash to continue the fight. The car sped out of the village as the men discussed the next meeting’s agenda. From high above a Hellfire missile spit off its rail in a hiss of flame. In a dark room 7,000 miles away Leon Panetta, who has given the order to fire the missile, watches Yazid’s car on a high-def TV screen. Yazid had never met Panetta, and he never heard the missile coming.

He blinked away the salt, running a sun stained hand along the worn wood as if to steady a horse, muttering a few quick words before setting the sails and taking in the morning wind. He had once been a man of the land, the hustle and bustle of crowded highways and cramped offices. A life for him no more. He had learned to love the fullness of silence on a calm day, the excitement of peace on a fast tack through the bay, the wealth of a worry-free way. Society called him underachieving, foolish, poor; he knew the truth.

I didn’t do it. Here’s the whole truth. I made friends with the wrong sort. We were just messing around. After school, waiting for our rides. When one of the kids, I’m not going to give you his name so don’t even try, but he started messing with some freshmen. Ya’ know called them names and stuff. I jumped in. But when one of the kids stood up to us, I guess I just wanted to feel like I was on top so I punched him, it’s not like me, I swear, but I feel real bad now Mr. Martin, honest.

Large black sunglasses stare at me over the register. The lady’s got red lips, tumbling black hair, and a frown sharp as a dagger. She hands over cash, snatches up her cigarettes, turns on a sharp heel. The words trip out before I can stop them “Be careful.” I stutter. She stills, takes off her sunglasses, and kills me with her gaze. “Boy,” she says, eyes like hard diamonds, eyes that have faced the dirty truth of this pit-stop world. “It’s just another night on the road.” The sound of her laughter stays with me long after she’s gone.

“Normal,” the girl said triumphantly. Her mother looked at the girl’s spoon, which she held for review. “That’s not normal,” she tsked. “Sure it is,” said the girl. “NORML.” “That’s not how you spell normal,” her mother insisted. “It is if I’m texting,” said the girl. “But you’re not texting… and you shouldn’t be playing with your food.” Chastised, the girl swallowed NORML and dipped her spoon in again. She enjoyed looking for words in each spoonful of her alphabet soup; finding secret messages in the bowels of each bowl. This time she saw BEAUTY; alas, her mother would see only BUT.

After moving in I decided to take a walk down the street and check out my new neighborhood. There was this old guy sitting on his front porch in a wheelchair with a sawed-off shotgun across his lap. I said, “Howdy neighbor.” He grunted, “Stay off my lawn.” I thought, “That’s not normal.” Next day – the exact same thing. My daily walk became a ritual and every time those were the only words we exchanged. This went on for about a year until the old man died. I miss our little chats.

The dream was different. I glided over the tracks – my eyes glowing like headlights – but when I got to where Ricketts was killed there was nothing, until I felt a 50-mile-an-hour rush and saw Leon Panetta captaining a ghost train, steaming backwards toward the city, disappearing, and leaving Doc Ricketts drunk with new life in his old car and a town that was not native-then Spanish-then Mexican-then American, but everything all at once, where the sardines never disappeared, where Steinbeck never went to New York, where Ocean View Boulevard reverberated with the croaks of displaced frogs.

Like many of you, I have been engulfed in reading the tens of thousands of Wikileaks documents. I printed them all and piled the stacks of paper into a shopping cart which I take daily downtown to the fire pit by Peet’s to peruse them over cups of pumpkin spice latte. After scanning most of the contents of the child’s seat, I discovered an entire ream of paper devoted to secret CIA operative locations. Thumbing through to the Maps for Monterey there was a map showing the fire pit. At the next bench, Leon Panetta sat down with his own cart.

“The truth is that we don’t think we need a checklist because we believe our memories are infallible.” “But, aircraft pilots and building contractors and investment counselors and even accountants use checklists to increase safety, improve quality and decrease mistakes.” “Yes, but, we are above all that.” “But, medical mistakes are the third most common cause of death. A simple checklist has been proven to decrease mistakes. It’s been proven to reduce surgical complications and death by 30 percent!” “Please don’t waste my time. Before you know it, you’ll ask me to wash my hands before I examine you.”

Three decades, Jan, I said; even Yoko’s managed to move on by now. You wearing black every day, playing Double Fantasy dawn to dusk, that’s not normal. I told her, when you were in therapy, things improved; you even bought a Ringo album. Try therapy again. She didn’t hear me. I said, he’d tell you to stop being a twit, you know. He’d say, “I was a musician, a regular guy.” She said, “He was the walrus.” But he wasn’t the freaking walrus. Paul was the walrus. Now I’ve got something to work with for another decade or so.

Deep under water there lived a seamonster named Claude. Claude suffered from a nervous disorder that caused him to gnaw on his scales. Unlike Claude, Ernesto was a refined specimen. He was a sleek silver bottlenose dolphin who was the center of attention at all the gala events in the tropical sea. Mermaids hung on Ernesto’s every squeal, schools of sardines sprang into his mouth, Ernesto was all about creature comforts. Claude may have been neurotic but he knew how to cure his neurosis. The truth is seamonsters don’t want dolphins with good taste, they want dolphins that taste good. Gulp. Problem solved.

“Get out of your house now! A tree is about to fall on it!” Within five minutes of the neighbor’s alarm, my son, the cat and I were driving to safety. It was Halloween, 2009. Stopping at Star Market to recover, we found Leon Panetta and Sylvia in produce. Interrupted only by an occasional well-wisher, the Panettas continued quietly evaluating each individually chosen vegetable. Moving on, I wondered how long it would take the Panettas to vacate THEIR home in an emergency. “Oh well,” I thought. “Not to worry. They’re safe. It’s not like Leon Panetta heads the CIA.”

(Note: This story was the inspiration behind this week’s cover art.)

On wings of feathered glory, Leon Panetta soared above Langley, Virginia, on his daily patrol. Suddenly, a piercing scream alerted him and he dove to investigate. Finding an elderly woman about to be devoured by an evil Grimotaur, Leon delivered The Panetta Punch to the monster’s chin, felling him with his golden fist. When the police arrived, and the woman was treated for patriotic shock, The Winged Agent sprang back into the sky. Gliding high above the clouds, he coasted and banked, flying like a childhood dream. Captain America had nothing on him. Except the good looks. Maybe.

I’ve been working for the family for several years as a bookkeeper, so it wasn’t any great surprise to get a phone call at home from Leon Panetta. “Ben, do you remember last night when I asked you to bring my laptop to Sylvia?” Sure, I told him, I remember. “Ben, Sylvia told me she never saw it, and I can’t find it anywhere. There’s important classified information on it.” I played dumb, because I knew that by the time he found out, I’d be long gone. Screw the CIA. Julian’s group will know how to handle the information.

It wasn’t the enhanced genital pat down that kept Brenda awake and feeling violated that night. The truth is, it had been some time since she had a man touch her with such contempt. What haunted her was this man whom only moments earlier, she had felt so close, so intimate with, taking her only relic from childhood, an antique snow globe given to her by her Nana. Her mind traced the arc of it’s flight over and over again, each time ending with it missing the can, shattering into a million pieces on the cold terrazzo of the airport floor.

Truth is a changeable thing. So when Shirley says we’ve been married since 2010 and have three kids, showing me holovideos to prove it, I accept that. Why not? We travel, eat well, entertain; her father left a fortune after patenting the homebots that now serve in every middle and upper class U.S. home. We’ve got three ourselves. Sometimes I joke that when I die Shirley can replace me with something from papa’s lab. She’ll frown and rub the back of my head. It’s so relaxing, when I open my eyes I can’t remember who I am until she tells me.

“That’s not normal,” corrected the mother. “A girl with your figure shouldn’t wear that out.” So Jessica changed. “That’s not normal,” pestered the friend. “A girl with your complexion shouldn’t wear that color.” So Jessica put on her jacket. “That’s not normal,” chastised the principal. “A girl of your age shouldn’t wear that skirt to school.” So Jessica went home to change. “That’s not normal,” she told herself as she stood in front of the mirror, staring at her body, noting each unique oddity and imperfection. “And I love it; it’s me. Normal is for those without their own identity.”

I walk quickly. I see that the line is long. Sullen faces look back at me as I pull open the door. There is an odd suck of air and he’s upon me. In the moment when I must choose fight or flight, I choose to fight. I punch him square in the face. He falls to the floor with a clatter, and… silence. He smiles up at me from the floor, a life size cutout of a mailman, informing me of the special holiday hours. Then, there’s laughter. Joyful laughter. Because the truth is, ‘tis the season to be jolly.

Last year, my parents promised to get me a pet turtle for my birthday. I decided that when my turtle arrived, I would name it “The Truth.” My parents have always taught me that the truth is a very good thing. It is something that we all should strive to achieve, that we all should crave to learn, and that we should always share with one another. When my birthday finally did arrive, my parents wound up getting me a purple hooded sweater. It turns out that The Truth was a lie. How ‘bout that.

“It’s one thing to wonder about the dark side from a 20-something vantage point, for although much can befall you in two short decades, you haven’t yet logged enough revolutions around the sun to be fully dipped in the achingly sublime mierpoux of life, its no fault of your own, you just haven’t been on the job long enough.” That was Leon Panetta’s explanation as to why the CIA wouldn’t hire me. “Look,” he said, “there’s a lot that goes on around here that’s not normal, it’s too much truth for a glass-half-full kind of girl like you.”

“Bless you.” It came from off his left shoulder. Momentarily unconscioused by his own sneeze, Jeff Hodge was unaware of anyone else, save him and the unresponsive body beneath him. Whirling left, knife sheathed in right hand, he was almost struck by the red-tipped cane that tapped the ground ahead of her. Blind. Had to be. “That’s not normal,” his mind reasoned, to bless a murderous monster (sneeze or not) just as he kneels, poised to deliver death to his prey by his own hand. “Thank you,” he hoarsed cautiously, and arose to meet her. “May I walk with you?”

There was a bullet with his name on it. And a mere child saved him. He hadn’t expected that. She had laughed, giggled upon saving him, and jumped into his arms. He braced himself for the impact. A small pop. That’s all it took. All it took for a look to come across her face, a look – of one who knows that her time is years down the line, and this is too soon. The bullet meant for him found her. That is the truth. That is why he survived.

After living in the same house for 10 years, I still manage to get up and hit my head on the shelf above my bed. As usual my parents are fighting downstairs. I stealthily walk to the stairs to listen. As the argument got heated, I knew it was my turn to make an entrance before my dad hit my mom again. Of course my mom acts like nothing happens as my dad stormed out the door. I wish my mom would just accept the truth; she needs to divorce my dad. I’m going to stand up to him one day.

“What kind of dog is that?” the serious important looking guy said to me. I told him he was a wiener cock. He said, “What?” I said he is a hot dog spaniel. He said, “What?” I finally told him that he is a cocker dachshund. “Oh,” he said and continued, “What’s his name?” I said Buck. He said “Butt?” I said Buck again. He said “Fuck?!?” I said Buck again. “Oh, that’s not normal,” he said. I finally asked who the hell he was. He said “Truth?” I said yeah. He said “Leon Panetta.” I said who?

He talked in facts and figures. She asked questions, offered opinions… ideas… stories. He was impeccably dressed; his movements were clean and precise. She had spilled a drop of soup on her lap while animatedly telling a tale. As they were leaving she picked up one of the restaurant’s matchbooks and smiled at the inscription. “For our matchless friends,” she said, presenting it to him. “You spilled soup on your skirt,” he replied. She looked into his eyes, saw the truth and, inwardly sighing as she walked toward the door, slipped the matchbook into her pocket; realizing she was the matchless one.

ALL THE REST

Dinner Menu

Jayanti Addleman | Coral de Tierra

I slammed on the breaks in panic. “It wasn’t there this morning,” he sounded desperate. “I’ve got to get it.” “Oh, Seth. It’s beyond rescuing. It’s dead.” “Rescue it? Oh no,” he smiled. “There’s nothing quite so delicious as fresh roadkill.”

Thief

Alec Rodriguez | Salinas

Mrs. Smith heard Tommy whispering to himself through the bathroom door. She walked downstairs and found her husband Frank sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.

“I’m worried about Tommy.” She said, “He is upstairs talking to himself.”

“You worry too much, he’s fine.” Frank said, taking cup to lips, not looking up.

“That’s not normal.” She said. Her eyes were scared.

In the bathroom upstairs, Tommy held a razor to his wrist. “I am so sorry.” He whispered. Guilty tears dripped on the picture of a girl. “I didn’t mean to steal it from you.”

G-L-O-R-I-A

Allston James | Monterey

Larry had gone to Tanzania on vacation. Even as a child he was interested in nature and wildlife. His family became concerned when he missed his returning flight. All attempts to contact Larry failed. A fewdays later hisbrotherreceived a call from a Tanzanian park ranger. Larry had been attacked and killed by a hippopotamus.sThe park ranger explained that when he got to Larry he was still alive and drifting in and out of consciousness. He said that Larry could barely breath but he managed to gasp one last word just moments before he died, “Gloria.”

Battleship

Andy Swanson | Pacific Grove

Early in 2001 I applied to the clandestine branch of the C.I.A. In November of 2001 I had my first phone interview. I thought it went well, but I did not hear from them again. In 2009 I decided that they might be having trouble tracking me down so I made the next move. I walked into the Panetta Institute, “I’d like to see Leon.” “We’ve been waiting.” Now, one year later, I’m sitting across from Osama Bin Laden in Kazakhstan playing a winner takes all Battleship match. Me, “B12.”

Osama, “miss,” “D13.” “Dang! Hit.”

Distance Loving

Anne Greene | Carmel

The hardest thing about the move was adjusting to the long distance relationship: 53 miles between her and her lover. Top to bottom, her home state of Rhode Island is all of 48 miles. Traveling just 10 miles gives Rhode Islanders pause and makes them question their motivation as well as their energy level. Yet here in California, the third largest state in America, one mustn’t blink at the long, fatiguing expanses of highway separating a moth from her flame. Although there’s truth in the saying: “Distance makes the heart grow fonder,”its author could not have been a Rhode Islander!

Yarpy Norm

Anne Greene | Carmel

“Where is Normal?” Abby’s friend asked. “It’s hard to say.Normal bolted out the door right after the election. He’d been acting irrationally for weeks leading up to it: barking unprovoked at strangers, snapping at other dogs he used to run with.” “That’s not Normal.” “Right! He just gradually turned into this attack machine – no tolerance for anyone – and so nothing and no one wanted anything to do with him.” “Well, his disappearance might just be safest for everyone, considering.” “I suppose so. If Normal would only come back to his senses, then maybe things would get back to Normal.”

Classified

Arlen Grossman | Del Rey Oaks

I’ve been working for the family for several years as a bookkeeper, so it wasn’t any great surprise to get a phone call at home from Leon Panetta. “Ben, do you remember last night when I asked you to bring my laptop to Sylvia.” Sure, I told him, I remember. “Ben, Sylvia told me she never saw it, and I can’t find it anywhere. There’s important classified information on it.” I played dumb, because I knew that by the time he found out, I’d be long gone. Screw the CIA. Julian’s group will know how to handle the information.

If Only – Him

Arlen Grossman | Del Rey Oaks

Her smile. That’s what made his eyes stop wandering. A smile that to him spoke of joy, truth, openness and passion. He was hooked. He just had to go over and introduce himself, but she was with three other women and he hated that. Wait, did she just smile –at him? She broke from the group. He started his move, but stopped. The restroom. Why do women always go to the restroom together? After an hour, he realized she would never break apart from her friends. He gave up, and with a heavy heart returned to his lonely apartment.

IfOnly – Her

Arlen Grossman | Del Rey Oaks

She pretended not to notice him staring at her, and continued talking with her friends. Callie had mentioned he was a good guy, handsome, a talented screenwriter, on the verge of breaking out big time. She would love to meet him, but the truth was she lacked the courage to make a move. Instead, she looked back at him, let her gaze – and smile –linger a moment. It was his move now. Alas, he didn’t take the hint and left about an hour later. She sighed and went home to pack for her lonely cross-country flight back to college.

Baby Boy

Beatrice Siegel | Monterey

Near midnighton Thanksgiving the halls at Community Hospital were quiet.Suddenly there was a buzz. Night nurses and others were talking about Leon Panetta. Did you hear? Leon Panetta’s in our hospital. I didn’t even know he was in town. Maybe home for the holidays. Was it a heart attack? Don’t know. If the word gets out, the press will be all over the place. The biggest buzz was at Pediatrics.A new dad was dancing with joy.“Did you see my new son? We named himLeon Panetta, after one of the greatest guys I know.”

Going to Prison

Bill Ziering | Carmel

This day, as with each other this summer, as the twins bolt out the door bound for their summer jobs, I bid them a good day. I had rehearsed a slew of clever remarks to spring at my departure. Now, I struggle to remember any. “I’ll be all right,” I tell them. “Be Mr. Dad these next six months, take good care of mom and sister Elizabeth, and stay the wonderful sons you are.” I gulp at the shallowness of my words, hopeful the boys would feel the spirit of the message rather than its sophomoric expression.

Day One in Prison

Bill Ziering | Carmel

I respond to cries of “Rec!” Braving inquiry, I discover it’s “recreation.” The guard mutters loud enough for the neighborhood to hear, “How stupid can they be?” One cage, one man. Truthfully, those in the animal cages appear considerable tamer than the guards hosting them. While we walk aimlessly, they‘re laughing the whole hour. Sheepishly I start jogging. Thirty-six steps make one time around. I find a little ball to toss, but soon weary fromdespair and old age. Fortunately, the youngster in the adjoining cage lacks a ball so, struggling; I somehow manage to ram it through the chain links.

Caught

Bill Ziering | Carmel

Donít blame me. Personally, I didnít like it from the beginning. I thought it would all blow over. I never dreamed the feds would pick up on it as they did. But whatís a girl to do? Nobody told them to waste ten years trying to bring him down. I think they just got caught up in the possibilities and their passions took over. Each investigator kept looking for the smoking gun. One agency after another called. Personally, I wanted out, but truthfully the other girls said we deserved something out of it. After all, we did mean well, at least at the beginning.

Repentance

Bill Ziering | Carmel

I said I was sorry. We didn’t mean it to turn out this badly. I had a job and couldn’t get it all done. Maybe I stretched it a little. I’m really not a bad person. It’s not like I ever did anything like this before or will again. Everything just snowballed. Truthfully he was always pushing to get things right. Didn’t he know we tried? After awhile we were all trapped, and I had enough respect for my co-workers not to rat on them. Besides, he had it all: money, a big house, nice cars, and a great family.

Sky Blue

Suzzane Mansager | Salinas

Truth is, she was magnetically attracted to the jacket’s color –cobalt blue. On sale, one left, just her size. Wore it for an interview; landed the job. Received compliments; had it on when the captivating guy in Marketing finally asked her out. It became her “lucky jacket.” Naturally, she wore it on her trip to Colorado for her cousin’s wedding. The plane crashed into a mountain, scattering people and wreckage. Cobalt blue against the snow caught a rescuer’s eye. The woman was clearly dead, but a muffled cry came from under her protective body, where a very lucky unharmed baby lay.

Slice

Joey Cobley | Pacific Grove

Mary walked to the end of the dock and plunged into the lake settling on the sandy bottom. She loved her children!No question. She thought she loved her husband. She loved her job. But sometimes… what if she just stayed at the bottom of the lake and maybe even opened her mouth and let the water slowly in. No cookies, homework, errands, meetings, mac and cheese, book group. Mary uncrossed her legs, put her hands together above her head, as if saying a prayer, and began to float to the surface. Truth, not the right time. Too much to do.

Water World

Mikhail Lounev | Monterey

Sky proved to be the truth against the yellow house and a nameless plant, which watered with a red kettle out-grew expectations. Bushes of the neighborhood swelled with rich flowers after the rains, running as wide streams down the broad pavement as all water, to the ocean. At the coast guard wharf the animals have not gotten a chance to pause and mimicked the delinquents that lined the government fence. Fishing in the seaweeds alongside the gaps, in the straights of that border, they screamed profanities, envisioning themselves nurtured on all parameters in the embrace of the concrete system.

December Life

Shawn T. Boyle | Pacific Grove

Between storms, he walked the alleyways of Pacific Grove like it was something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. He sponged the Americana scene that was all around him. The beautiful dark watery skies lit up the old painted houses as he rambled. Telephone licorice wires and overgrown grass reminded him of being in Ireland. He had a playlist on his iPod of melancholy songs from the ‘90s. The songs had some sort of reference or had the word “December” in the title. He thought about the year. He got married and has a baby coming. He finally was living Truth.

Indecision at the Ritz

Deirdre K. Dineen | Pacific Grove

It is a gray morning in Paris. The windows of the luxury hotel room are wide open. On a room service tray, steam rises from a café au lait. Shopping bags from the finest Parisian shops and French and American cash are strewn on the floor. The telephone by the gold-canopied bed rings but goes unanswered. Sitting on the floor next to a box of Chanel flats, Juliette sighs and removes the knotted rope from around her neck. She reaches for the now silent telephone, dials the front desk and orders a taxi to Charles de Gaul.

Goodbyes

Cristina A. Biegel | Monterey

Peter doesn’t talk much: his sentences,“no leave,” “sit here,” are task specific and we believe at two and a half he is paring language down to its clean essentials.Truth.Yesterday I took our old American Bulldog, Vinny,to the vet’s and sat with him while Dr. Cross put him to sleep. Four words: Hardly clean ones. Today Peter and I are at the laundromat washing the couch covers that wouldn’t fit into our machine, still damp with Vinny sputterings. Peter’s arms arecovered with flea bites. Peter kisses a bite while dumping Tide into the swirling water. “Vinny feas.”

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The View

Cristina A. Biegel | Monterey

It’s 3 a.m. in San Francisco and I’m standing at one of the big windows that look out at the Church of Scientology across the street. Hastings Law School owns this old apartment building and I’m holed up here on the fourth floor to cram for the Bar Exam. I leave here once a day to work out. Anyway, I woke up a few minutes ago and looked down to the street and saw a limo drive up. Two guys in jackets got out and pulled a woman into the car that was picketing in front of the Church. That’s not normal.

sClean Up

Cristina A. Biegel | Monterey

My peephole into the real Leon Panetta? Twenty years ago we went to a fundraiser for him at someone’s house in Monterey. We were on the patio. It was a warm evening and I watched his wife, Marylin, drop a half filled glass onto the concrete. A tall, lean gray-haired man in a suit stooped down with a white towel to gather up the breakage. Mr. Panetta walked off and on the scene within thirty seconds with another glass, full this time. As he handed it to Marylin, he gave her a wink. She grinned.sThe guy’s an operator.

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Dog’s Lifes

Rhonda Somerton | Seaside

Mikey was in a wheelchair for as long as he could remember, so he understood about isolation and loneliness. His neighbor’s dog was left alone every day, with no love or attention. As freezing temperatures hit, he told his mom how sad he was because the dog had no doghouse or bed. His mom called Humane Investigations. After seeing the fancy, expensive humane van leave, she ran into the neighbor and asked him what had transpired. With the sad dog watching and knowing the truth, the neighbor said “Oh, the investigator complimented me on how well I care for my dog.”

Sundaze

Verna Lee Schreiber-Wicks | Salinas

I am left with the memories, of budding emotions. Church was the only opportunity, available for us, to socialize. I didn’t like religion forced down my throat, but I considered that a small trade off. There were many of us during our growing up, as baby boomers, in those years. Playing the games of romance was enough motivation to get me inside the church. Learning how to sit in the very back row, or would leave when we didn’t feel the service needed our attendance, or applied to us… Slowly learning to gravitate to those we felt closest to, each Sunday.

Coloratura

Ann Malokas | Marina

Truth: Jane, faded opera star, cried every time she heard the song on the radio at Christmas. Truth: She could walk into the gym that gave her back her health, her voice and belt it out for the young ones who had once intimidated her with hair and fashion she didn’t understand, tattoos, piercings. She had mothered, grandmothered them to friendship. Truth: she did belt out her song and watched the gym grow silent, then resume, but quietly, as muscles moved and stretched and weights crashed to the floor, a song, for a time, to remember, enrich. “Ave Maria, gracia pleneÖî

Shave and a Haircut

Laura Bartram | Monterey

An unusual buzzing sound heard from somewhere nearby. A moment for it to register, “That’s not normal!” But it’s too late.“What did you do?”“Nothing.” “Did you shave your eyebrows?”“No.”

“You did! You shaved your eyebrows off!”“They’re off?!”A mad dash around the house to find a mirror he can see into. At first glance, it’s not even noticeable. He’s lucky he’s fair-haired, but upon close inspection, the eyebrows are sparse, nearly non-existent. “Why didn’t you tell me that would happen, Mama?!” he cries in dismay. “Will they grow back?”“Yes, my little boy, they will grow back.”

Im-Pale

Thane Brown | Monterey

“That one up there looks good,” Wil said, the old ladder wobbling. “I bet those over to your left are really juicy!” Bell yelled. Tossing her a fat Meyer lemon, feet shifting, Wil stretched left, reaching. His fingers closed, barely, on a golden yellow lemon. Twisting, he plucked and dropped it into waiting hands. Leaves rustling, he reached for the second golden treasure. “Ahh, gotta get higher, hold me steadyyyiiiii, ayeeee… !” With a grating of wood on stone, a dry snap! The ladder collapsed leftward. The upturned rake’s spikes looked really brutal as Wil accelerated toward them. In truth, they were.

Lucky Dog

Maddie Jani | Prunedale

My role model is definitely our dog, Abbey. She has survived many things such as cancer. She is very sick right now and has to be given fluids. She also can’t eat human food. We’re going to amputate her leg because she has bone cancer. I remember when my Mom told me, when I got older, we wanted to get her from the shelter, but our Grandma didn’t because her face was all black and scary. Aren’t we lucky we got her! I love our dog Abbey as much as you did after you read this true story.

Twist in Sobriety

Alison Gates | Pacific Grove

“I can’t believe you baked me a cake,” Deborah exclaimed. “Hey six months sobriety deserves a thousand calories,” her mother said. “I think the hardest part has been the loneliness.” “They were never your friends,” her brother said, watching as the two women approached the apartment. I can’t believe what I’m seeing he thought. To leave her for dead and then show up here. Holding up a hand he turned to his sister. “Incoming.” “I’ve got it.” Opening the door she walked outside. Twenty minutes later she returned. Alone. “I told them to get lost,” she said reaching for her cake.

Chowder Sundae

Alison Gates | Pacific Grove

The chef on TV looked at the camera and said “here’s my easy clam chowder.” “Remember our double date?” Cindy asked her husband.The date was not a great idea. The two couples, one fighting, one newly acquainted (Cindy and Paul) sat in uncomfortable silence as the chowder was served. To break the tension Cindy suggested the ladies room to her friend. Coming back into the restaurant Cindy stopped, surprised, watching Bruce spoon chocolate ice cream into his chowder, his friend laughing. That’s not normal she thought. Just what I look for in a man.

Knowledge Overload

Kathleen Thier| Salinas

For hours we talked about learning. And then I said, “I curse what I know sometimes. I see way too much. I see through things and the weave of things. I see the thing hanging… right in the place it should be. Surrounded by what gives it meaning, not suspended alone for anyone to draw pictures around. Take Leon Panetta, for example. Hang him in context. Do nothing else. I’m trying to uncover the truth. I know that’s not normal, but it makes me feel alive.” He answered, “Yes, alive and alone.”

The Girl With the Scarlet Pimpernel

Tom Dominy | Salinas

While attempting to relax in the tub images of death bombarded her. Being half Serbian Muslim and Croat was a wicked combination living in the war torn town of Srebenica in the Drina Valley northeast of Bosnia. She escaped the massacre by squeezing herself between the floorboards of her family farmhouse and the damp cold earth beneath her. Somehow she remained unnoticed by the Bosnian Serb goon squads and survived. She rubbed the purple tattoo and thought of peace. The truth was there would be no peace and closed her eyes again.

Mama

Debbie Thomas | Pacific Grove

I was awakened by her doctor asking me if he should resuscitate her as her breathing had almost stopped. I answered the hardest question I have ever been asked with a “no” as she had just told me hours before that she wanted to go to Heaven. The truth is she was the first person I loved and I was the last voice she heard. I held her 76-year-old hand and leaned over her breast less chest due to the cancer that is now killing her. My mouth next to her ear, I whispered “thank you for everything Mama.”

Touch the Junk

Scott Bogen | Carmel

It wasn’t the enhanced genital pat down that kept Brenda awake and feeling violated that night. The truth is, it had been some time since she had a man touch her with such contempt. What haunted her was this man whom only moments earlier, she had felt so close, so intimate with, taking her only relic from childhood, an antique snow globe given to her by her Nana. Her mind traced the arc of it’s flight over and over again, each time ending with it missing the can, shattering into a million pieces on the cold terrazzo of the airport floor.