55 Fiction 2011 Sun

N O R T H E R N S A N TA B A RB A R A C O U N T Y ’ S N E W S A N D E N T E R TA I N M E N T W E E K LY > J U LY 7 - J U LY 14 , 2 0 11 > V O L . 12 N O. 17 > W W W. S A N TA M A RI A S U N .C O M

AT THE MOVIES

Visit Paris [37]

You want short stories?

We’ve got short stories! [28]

NEWS PG&E asks NRC to re-classify SPORTS Khaos softball players go to a fault’s threat status [10]

national championships [22]

ARTS Painter Luis Ramirez elevates the ordinary in Los Olivos [24]

Short and bittersweet The Sun presents the winners of its 24th annual 55 Fiction competition ART BY NEAL BRETON

At the Bar

“Afternoon, Detective. What’ll it be?”

“Anything, George, provided it’s strong.”

“I judge that cryogenics lab breakin didn’t turn up any leads?”

“Not this time, George. … God, this drink’s good.”

“Glad you like it, Detective. That drink’s new. Boss says it’s from concentrate.”

Horatio Bartle San Luis Obispo

Dark collegiate creatures. Penguin hierarchies. Regret. Pasties. Murder, of course. A giant waterslide. 55 Fiction, our brave and long-suffering judges have learned, can take you a lot of places.

So lean back, take a sip of strawberry lemonade, or possibly an iced chai, and let this year’s winners take you on a journey.

Just don’t blink, or you might find they’ve passed you by.

Sons of Devils

Storm clouds are stacked on the mountain. Soldiers lie dead in the grass. The ribbons she bought for her wedding have faded. But no one forgets the widow. Her man is watching from his place in the sky.

She won’t notice him touching her soldier. And we are nothing but sons of devils again.

Youssef Alaoui Morro Bay

The Millipede and the Shoe Makers What Year Is It?

My office is just covered with out of date calendars and old coffee.

It seems as if I need to clean it, but I am too damned lazy. It’s 2011 and yet my office is in the year 2009. The Hooter’s girls don’t seem to mind. They tend to like lying in the sand.

Zac Kimble Bridgeton, N.J.

The Police Have Been Here

The pedestrian overpass is peaceful now. No crackling fires or piercing shouts pollute the silence. I hear only my footsteps and passing traffic.

Where are the young men who want to re-skin my cell phone?

Where are the old men who want to feed me skewers of meat?

They’re somewhere else. Unhurt, I hope.

Michael Gsovski Brooklyn, N.Y.

Kinda Blue

Chillin’ on the sofa. Text from Michelle. She’s comin’ over. Roll a doobie. Play Kind of Blue. She melts at this song. Thanks Messieurs Davis and Coltrane. She’s pregnant. Bitch, bitch, bitch. Working two jobs to pay child support. For sale on eBay: CD collection, played once.

John Geraci Redondo Beach

Logan, the Self-Proclaimed Giraffe

“I am a giraffe!” Logan shrieked to his mom from outside.

“No, you’re not,” his mom yelled back.

But, in fact, Logan was a giraffe.

He ate leaves every day for every meal. He hadn’t eaten anything else since spring. Yet Logan’s mother was concerned. Winter was coming, and the leaves were falling and dying.

Gabe Birkley

These Questions Seem Kind of Specialized

Coronation

One of the tallest Adelie penguins wanted to become village chief. One night before he was elected, a King penguin appeared. The villagers wanted this new, taller penguin to become their king. Just before the coronation ceremony, an Emperor penguin arrived. The King penguin promised to pay a tribute of tuna fish to him.

YuSook Jung

The millipede achieved political power after being ignored by the shoe makers. He needed lots of cheap shoes made in one size. The millipede saw his duty to simplify shoes for the shoe makers. Shoes were made in fewer sizes and were cheaper, and they could be consumed more easily.

Often, the shoes were uncomfortable.

Jim McKrell Atascadero

Memory’s a Funny Thing

What was his name anyway? She strained to recall. Robert, Roger?

Something like that. Her 90-yearold brain seemed useless. Who was “Roger Rabbit?” What did the word “rarebit” mean? The man leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Mom,” he said. Oh, she remembered, it’s a kind of melted cheese. Served on dry toast.

Dana Istre Lompoc

We told the kittens they couldn’t come to pub trivia. Then Question 1 was “How many times do they feed you at the pound?” We wrongly said twice daily. Question 2: “Is the squirrel in the back yard that barks at Snowflake an asshole?”

We answered “no.” Then Question 3: “Is string cool?” Wrong again.

Joel Page Dallas, Texas

Prolific power

Some years, one name stands out in the pile. As scores are tallied, we sometimes realize that high marks consistently go to a particular writer who, in addition to being prolific, consistently surprises, amuses, and impresses the year’s judges.

This year, Dylan Rede from Atascadero did just that. The following are just a few of his entries.

Where the College Things Are

Without fail, they come out after dark. The skirts get higher; the inhibitions, self-esteem get lower.

They drink their terrible drinks, bat their terrible eyes, and lick their terrible lips. Oh, college things. Let the wild rumpus begin.

Reflections

In 1971, I met a guy and we killed someone, vowing no further contact. But in 1981, he sent me an incriminating letter. So in 1991, I sent him a photo of the letter burning. In 2001, he filmed the photo burning, and sent the film to me. And now I have to kill him.

Joel Page Dallas, Texas

Declaration

She whispered it. It was more vocalized breath than actualized utterance. And she meant it. Clearly.

He may have heard, but never let on.

Not that he had time to.

“I only think of murder, with you around.”

And Many More

Big House Hobbies

“Can’t drink. Can’t smoke. Drugs? Out of the question. No women.

No sex. Generally, big house hobbies boil down to extremely cheap entertainment.”

Nineteen-year-old Johnny asked, “What the hell’s that mean?” Vinny looked at Big George and said, “Explain.”

George said, “If you drop your soap in the shower, I’m sellin’ tickets.

Cheap.”

Larry A. Thompson Sterling, Colo.

He rode the same waterslide repeatedly, once for each of his thirty years. It was a long, frighteningly dark tunnel that spit you out into a sun-drenched and painful world. He always questioned the significance of cake and community, choosing, instead, to spend his birthday alone in the water park.

No Gold Watch

The smell of singed fur clung to trailer walls like cigarette smoke in a twelve step meeting. The ringmaster entered; his star’s take in one hand, one last thread of hope in the other.

The tiger looked up, the answer already there in his tired eyes.

“I’m done jumping through hoops, Bob.”

The Sidewalk and the Gutter

Newborn

“I think she finally stopped crying,” he says, relieved. “Leave those dishes until the morning. The noise will wake her.” They painstakingly sit down on the sofa, aimlessly flip through the channels, and she resolutely turns off the TV. “Can you get the bottle ready for later?” she asks. “Vodka or scotch?” he sighs.

David Sharp Morro Bay Ashley Schwellenbach is managing editor of New Times, the Sun’s sister paper to the north, where 55 Fiction originated. Send comments to aschwellenbach@newtimesslo.com.

It surprised me when I started crying—big tears, a couple of shoulder heaves. They’re so alike.

One dead to the world, curled around an empty bottle; the other truly dead, thrown in the gutter, leash still on. One on the sidewalk, one in the gutter, not ten feet apart and I just walked on.

That Moment

He remembers the moment he stopped caring.

It was a sunny day, in a dell, the breeze keeping the heat down.

The smell of apples was a pleasant surprise.

If he forgets, there are always pictures.

She said it first, all was well.

He looked in her eyes, her hand in his.

“I do.”