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Bill. Bernice had declined her sister’s half-hearted offer to spend the night. “No I’ll be all right” she said. Thirty years she had spent with Bill, every night with him telling her, “Don’t leave the window open you’ll catch a cold,” or, “Turn off the light I’m trying to sleep here,” when she wanted to read. Tonight would be different. Bernice opened all the windows and read her book until the dawn. — Joe Wixson
north coast journal winner
Life Lessons at WinCo Charles Manson shops at WinCo. He hobbles, greasy and toothless, between the Gravy Train and Palmolive. I step to the other side of the aisle. Digging something from his ear, he inspects it, like a diamond. I pretend to scrutinize cat litter. His stinking, ragged sleeve brushes against me. ”I buy cheap …” he whispers, pointing to the generic detergent. “Uh-huh,” I mumble. “…so I can afford the good stuff for Baby.” I stare, holding my breath. Boney arms lift Iams for Senior Dogs into his basket. Now he looks nothing like Manson. Just Jesus, having a rough day. — Mashaw McGuinnis
ncj blake’s booklegger
I Want my Baskets I awoke in the middle of the night. The man I loved slept on the floor on one side of me. His young son snored softly on the other side. We were staying in the studio of an artist who lived on a cliff overlooking the ocean. The artist’s house was filled with Indian baskets, collected over the years. An old Indian man, dressed in a faded plaid shirt, sat in a chair, looking intently at me. I couldn’t tell if I was dreaming but it seemed real: the soft breathing of the sleepers, the old man’s stare. — Janine Volkmar
blake’s
Watching TV One character says to another, “Hey, what are you doing? Watching TV?” “No,” says the other. “The TV is watching me.” — Christopher Christianson
“You look cold, sister,” he told me, then placed his scarf around my shoulders. We walked quietly, Eric and I, through the blossoming morning, our eyes unshut in amazement. — Maura Rasmussen
ncj
Phil Collins Revenge My best friend hates Phil Collins. I’m neutral on the subject. Why she chose this man to hate, I haven’t a clue. Nor do I have a clue as to why she chose her distant cousin as her maid of honor and her best buddy since seventh grade didn’t make the cut. On the hung-over ride home from the wedding, a man was giving puppies away on a corner. Maybe it was the hangover, but I like to believe it was fate. You have no idea how hard it was to fit “Su … Sussudio Oh, Oh!” on a dog tag. — Sarah Godlin booklegger
booklegger
Fortune A month later, the bike disappeared in the night. We tore through the damp streets before dawn, in heartbroken rage. Outside the Co-op a lady bum cried about her friend, incarcerated for manslaughter. Eric gave her a smoke while I went inside for some napkins. When I came back, a clean-shaven santa claus had joined them.
We loved the strong verbs, descriptive language and the story arc. Judged by five members of the North Coast Journal editorial staff. (Also among the favorites chosen by: Blake’s Books, Northtown Books and Booklegger.)
Untitled She is a good woman, she always was. Me, I’ve always been a terrible husband. I never settled down after the first divorce. Never drove her kids to any of their soccer games.
I never tell her I love her, but God knows I do. It wasn’t even that bad of a night. Sure, I smell like bourbon, and a man I don’t know is showing me his tattoos; she won’t be too mad. She is always there for me. Here she comes: she always wore her pajamas to the jail cell. — Matthew Reeves
blake’s
Mending Time Silly Strawberry. Every night it was Silly Strawberry. She knew her thoughts were drifting when she put on the minty grownup toothpaste instead. The eldest held out his tongue, pointing into his mouth uttering “Ahhh, Ahhh,” as if his mother could divine some greater meaning there. Then she realized her mistake. Rinse. Repeat, this time with the right kind. How many mistakes were made? Words misspoken, loved ones forgotten, work done carelessly. If only they could all be solved this simply. Simple directions, like the labels on shampoo. Say I’m sorry. Rinse. Repeat. — Natalia Collier
northtown
A Welcome Temblor I was at the end of my tether at the telemarketer boiler room. The manager was a smarmy drugstore cowboy with slicked back hair, snakeskin boots and an obnoxious cloud of cologne that permeated every inch of the cramped call center. After work I went to a bar down the street, a scummy place filled with decrepit waterheads. Early the next morning I awoke, still half drunk, to an intense shaking. The entire building was slammed hard, as if by a giant with a temper tantrum. The earthquake was my pink slip, and the answer to my prayers. — Jay Aubrey-Herzog continued on page 20
18 NORTH COAST JOURNAL • THURSDAY, APRIL 26, 2012 • northcoastjournal.com