Writing a story in 101 words — it’s no easy task. Protagonists, conflict and resolution? That’s a lot to ask of a measly 101 words. But ask we did, and our readers came through. Oh, you came through big time. This year, we received close to 250 original entries. And, we think, that’s got to be some kind of record.

We’re not talking 250 humdrum entries, either. We were blown away by both the quantity and quality of the submissions. (Shout out to Sami Zahringer! You’ll get the joke if you keep reading, we promise.)

The submission that impressed us the most, Jan Loren’s “Sometimes it Strikes Twice,” has everything you can want in a great story. Perfectly crafted sentences (check out her last paragraph), two fully developed, interesting characters, a conflict and a resolution. Nothing is missing. It was fanciful without being cheesy and was a heavy favorite among our judges (i.e., the VC Reporter’s entire editorial staff and two photo interns).

Of course, we also loved Stewart Sinclair’s cool-as-ice private eye, Christopher Gordon’s world-traveling, cross-dressing fugitive and Michael Reiser’s gambling squirrel.

Reading through these entries was an unexpected treat for all of us. So here is a selection of our favorites; we only wish we could have included more!

First Place

Sometimes it Strikes Twice

Uncle Archie was conceived during an electrical storm at the exact moment a lightning bolt blew the roof off Grandma’s silo. Consequently, he was always brilliantly passionate. He fell in love with Lily in a flash.

After 40 years, Lily passed on. So when the next storm hit, Uncle Archie stood out by the silo with Lily’s aluminum bean colander on his head and waited for Kingdom Come.

Fortunately, he only caught bronchitis and was restored to excellent health by Morisette, a hospital nurse who wore shocking red garters under her uniform and appreciated the concepts of electromagnetism and second chances.

Jan Loren

Second Place (tie)

Fleeing

Lamoomba, my ever faithful parrot, and I fled from the Rug Police in Algiers. I had to leave him in the taxi as a decoy. I jumped aboard a merchant marine ship by the name of The Esmeralda, played snooker in Bagdad, ran numbers in Pakistan and went skinny-dipping in Bhutan. I had to dress like Greta Garbo to get out of Madrid, but it was worth it (and I think I liked it). I'm bound for the Land of Laughs; maybe I can relive my youth as a carnival ring-toss man.

Christopher Gordon

Second Place (tie)

Jim Gatts: Private Eye

The alarm clock sounded. Then it sounded again … It got halfway through the fourth humdrum resonance when it was overwhelmed by the reverberation of a revolver blowing it to pieces. Detective Jim Gatts swayed out of bed and sauntered toward his wrecked and sinfully defiled kitchen, laden with pots, pans and passersby looking for the men’s room.

From a carton of milk, Jim poured a handful of bullets and withdrew a clip from the eggs. From the gun case, he grabbed a Danish as he moseyed out the front door: an ordinary morning in the life of detective Jim Gatts.

Stewart Sinclair

Third Place

The Acorns of Greed

Neon lights illuminated the tree as Dennis the Squirrel collected his sacks of acorns and prepared for a night of forest blackjack and poker. Before departing from his nest, his concerned wife, Hazel, requested, “Please, Dearest. No more gambling.”

“Where do you think our luxuries come from? My winnings!” With that remark, Dennis scrambled down the tree toward the casino. With a swig of acorn juice, he gambled his acorn savings on squirrel roulette. Unfortunately, luck had bitten him in the tail. Only one thing left to gamble — his soul.

“Soul on red!”

“Black.”

Dennis’ soul was lost on gambling.

Michael L. Reiser

Honorable Mentions

The Deep Thoughts, by Jack Handey Award

For best use of mystical realism … and a flying whale

Feel His Wrath

No one ever thought he was serious when he threatened to use the whale. They just chuckled like they always did. \"Oh, Jim!\" they sighed, enjoying his silly little joke, like they always did. They patted him amiably (if a little pityingly) on the back and went on their merry way, not even looking back. Just like they always did. He glared after them and plotted sweet, sweet revenge.

When the whale finally did come flaming down out of the sky like an opera-bellowing, krill-eating, forest-fire-starting meteor, they pretty much unanimously believed him. It was a little late for that, though.

Stephanie Anderson

The David Lynch Award

For the best use of an image sure to cause nightmares in young children

There was a dead baby in that lime-green sleeping bag found in the parking lot beneath the spotlight of the streetlamp. It was mine.

I did not give birth to it. I was not pregnant with it. I did not know it. But it was mine all the same.

Weeks later it was revealed to the public that what they found in the lime-green sleeping bag was not a baby, but a sheared lamb. And it was mine all the same.

Ellen Bernstein

The Chiquita Banana Award

For best use of fruit in biblical erotica

Eve had a lust for strange fruit. But to satiate her craving for variety she had to get out of the garden. That would involve patient and deliberate scheming. The patsy was easily conned. Day after day, she would pose demurely (seductively) beneath a given tree. On tip-toe, foot arched, calves and buttocks raised, she reached for the offending fruit, letting its abundant juices drip down her neck and breasts. Adam was a sucker for that. It wasn’t long before his recklessness got him caught. Released from her confinement, Eve now had the world before her — strange fruit and endless possibilities.

Anonymous

The Lorena Bobbit Award

For the most sinister open-ended short story

Market Day

The can was dented in the middle and bent over like a drunken man. Moira took it from the shelving unit that held day-old bread and damaged goods.

Chili. Arthur, her husband, would devour it in one sitting.

She waved over the store manager. “This can. Any chance of getting botulism?”

The store manager grinned. He inspected it like an art expert checking for forgery.

“Absolutely not.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh.” Maybe he was wrong? Should she take it?

The glint of a blade caught her eye. She picked up the carving knife, admired its heft.

“I’ll take this instead.”

Gerald Simmons

The Ernest Hemmingway Award

Best short and to-the-point prose

My mother walks into my room, her eyes glazed with anger. Her voice sounds like a cow getting hit by a train. “Joel! Why did you break the golden-glass frame that our family picture was in?” She yells at the top of her lungs and makes my heart stop for a couple of seconds. She didn’t know the whole story, even though I did break it on purpose. I was mad at her for taking my car away, since I ran 78 red lights in the past month and a half. She doesn’t love me very much, I don’t think.

Joel Danner

The Carl Sagan Award

For best use of the word “algorithms” without putting anyone to sleep

Space Time

When I sat down to write the code, I only intended to create an interesting luminescent effect. The code was simply common algorithms for the desired geometric shapes. Last year, I hacked together a machine that produces an enormous electromagnetic field. I was trying to use a graphics routine to control the magnetic field in order to produce an effect like a mini-Aurora Borealis. How I ended up here, I’m not sure.

The place is familiar, but only from descriptions in books I’ve read.

This journal is my only companion.

I want to go home.

Michael Weingarden

The Country Time Lemonade Award

For best and most touching use of a salt-bleached deck

In Praise of Quantity

A warm, dusty breeze on the salt-bleached deck. Maisie and Bert, on a rocking chair, look out at the waves.

\"I've always valued quantity over quality,” said Bert to Maisie.

\"Hmm.\"

\"The ocean, toilet paper, pebbles on the beach: all much better in bulk.”

\"And love and hope,” said Maisie

\"Eh?\"

\"No point in having one ounce of top-class hope once on a Tuesday when what's needed is a wide, if threadbare expanse of it, to just get to next Tuesday. A daily shred will do. Same for love.\"

\"Yup.\" said Bert.

Sami Zahringer

The Nick Cave Award

For best casual treatment of murder and its consequences

The Ellipsis

Met Sally Friday. She was murdered Sunday. Accused early morning. I DID NOT DO IT, did no good. Seven years passed before DNA exoneration. Back broke while incarcerated. (Joke.)

Met Gertrude Friday. She was murdered Sunday. Captured after two-hour pursuit. I DID IT, greased the skids. Miranda error freed me.

New Sally evidence got me the death sentence. I DID NOT DO IT, still no help. Fourteen years now and my back is killing me. (No joke.) You get used to Death Row after a while, sure.

Pardoned, weak evidence.

Met Jackie Friday. She was murdered Sunday. Immediately arrested.  I ...

Ted Smith

The Dick Cheney Award

For best incorporation of current events

Morning on the Grassy Knoll

Gary was having a good time. Rubbing shoulders with the second most powerful man in the world wasn’t shabby to the lawyer. He thought he had it made. Little did he know, Rick had it in for him: done, finished, bamboozled. Well, after three bullets to his head, neck, chest and heart attack later, he finally figured it out. Rick had turned a little gun-crazy after Gary had “mentioned” spring break 1968. News, next day — “Uh … I thought it was a quail.” Wow. Rick never needed a lawyer so badly and he had never been so feared by them.

Alex Frantela

The James Frey Award

For best use of creative license in a “non-fiction” short story

101 Changes

101 Words! I can do that, I think. I’ll write about that night in Reno, but make it Vegas, where I talked to that sexy waitress, but I’ll make her a hooker. She thought I was funny, but I’ll say she thought I was a stud. She smiled at me when I left, but I’ll say she gave me a freebie. I went back to Motel 6 to sleep it off, but I’ll say the babe invited friends over for a party.

Yeah. I’ll say that; it sounds like a great story.

Nah, I can’t say that in 101 words.

John Darling

The Lewis Carroll Award

For the best moral-free fable containing both a walrus and a caterpillar

Hungry Walrus

There once was a hungry walrus. His name was Joe. He was very fat, but he had a lot of friends. One day, Joe the walrus was hungry, but he had made friends with all the animals so he couldn’t eat any of them. He asked his friend the caterpillar what he should do.

“Eat leaves like me,” he said. So Joe tried eating leaves.

“These are gross,” said Joe.

“Well I think they’re yummy,” said the caterpillar. “I just don’t know what to tell you.” So the walrus said, “Screw it,” and ate his friend the fish.

Katryna Penney-Donaldson

The Alfred Hitchcock Award

Best semi-delusional character stranded in a shadowy, shadowy world

Reality Check

You need more than a coat for this battlefield,

Love Street.

Stars bright. A tooth of a moon dangles. The revved engines of the tinted cars sound almost pornographic, when they cruise close, passing slowly.

I walk faster when the headlights snuff, pulling up behind me. Footsteps follow me two blocks to home.

I choose the house with the porch light on. They huddle in their pockets at a distance.

“Hi. I’m with the Girl Scouts of America,” I say, pointing. “Those guys over there are following me.”

They split, for now. But the older I get, the more I keep checking.

G.B. Marcus

The William Blake Award

For best poetry (even though we specifically said no poetry)

Oh great harlot!

Kings and merchants cry out

at your smokey passage, while

the fornicators of the earth

drink your heady wine.

And, yet, you laugh,

drunk on the blood of saints,

and fill your cup with a blasphemous brew.

Now, see her eyes: how they burn with

the fires of madness as she thrusts

her loins upon that red, horned beast.

But what wild offspring bursts

from this union to gnash its teeth

upon the sands of the abyss?

And I … I divert mine eyes

from her, lest I quench my thirst

upon her beckoning lips.

Michael Bugg

The George Orwell Award

For best Orwellian (Bradburyian?) portrayal of a post-apocalyptic future. At least there are still trees in 2055

He rushed into the park woods, hyperventilating. The police raid had trapped every other cell member, and now their dogs had his scent. Left hand clutching the Sacred Vessel, he swore loyalty to Great-uncle Gabriel Daniel’s defiant proclamation from when the Order had been outlawed in 2055. The exposed oak roots caught his foot; his left wrist broke the fall but shattered the glass tube of the Sacred Vessel. Shards severed the ulnar artery, blending his blood with the tube’s red liquid. With life ebbing away, he faintly heard his epitaph: “Got him, Sarge — the last of the Fahrenheit People.”

Hugh Quetton

The Vince Vaughn Award

For best step-by-step instructions on how to complete a devastating practical joke

Breaking the news

\"I've been thinking of a funny thing to do to someone.\" Rob said.  

He always had these ideas.

OK, what is it?

What are you implying? That little phrase. No matter what someone asks you, your first response is that question.

How was your weekend?

What are you implying?

New haircut?

OK, not too bad. That's funny.

Sure it is, try it.

OK, well, um, ask me a question.

Have you ever considered raising a child that wasn't your own?

What are you implying?

I got your wife pregnant, and I couldn't think of an easier way to tell you.

Damon Waters

The Sylvia Plath Award

For the most well written short story that makes us want to off ourselves

Mama, she knew everything and then some.

She could can the best peaches, grow English roses and make Crepes Suzettes.

Oh, she could pick a “Heritage” from a “Homere,” spot the first towhee and recite perfect prose.

Mama always knew who did what, went where, what for and how long.

Daresay she even knew Little Boy’s Daddy was going to be a dopehead before he himself saw he was headed that way.

Mama, she knew everything.

Everything that is except that Papa was dying. That fact she chose to ignore when everyone else could see it plain as day.

M. Estaville

The Sigmund Freud Award

For best stroking of our ego, and best use of our classifieds section

The Other End of the Line

2:03 a.m. Out the door.

Harsh.

Drunk again. So what else is old?

This time o’ night … the worst. Bars closed, didn’t score. Nothin’.

Good ol’ VC Reporter. Price is right. Rag feels rough. Scan the cover. ’Nother serious, mysterious issue.

Flippin’ pages. Focus. SOS: Holistic health. Local eateries. Music scene. Hell with it.

Flip to back: Personals. Adult en’ertainment. Massage. Now yer talkin’.

Zoom: I’m ready; are you? Demanding mistress will whip you into submission. You like pain? Satisfaction guaranteed.

Damn.

Greasy payphone. Dial. Focus!

Ringing. Pick up!

“U.S. Army recruiting, can I help you?”

Will Falconer