You know the drill: pull the pile out of your mailbox, rifle through it, toss most of it in the recycling bin. And, if you’re like us, sigh a wistful reminder of when getting the mail used to mean actual surprises. Hey, we get it. There’s email, texting, Skype, Gchat, Facebook—none of this is new. But in the bulk-rate world of the physical mailbox, a genuine hand-addressed envelope or package inspires a special kind of wonder.

That’s what we were counting on when we announced this year’s writing contest, in which readers sent us their mailing addresses and we, in turn, sent them random objects on which to base a 400-word piece of creative fiction. The response was overwhelming, and 146 people signed up, a new record for our annual writing contest. Turns out people love getting free stuff in the mail.

Due to the huge response, shipping was delayed slightly, and then affected by a postage error—sorry, our fault—but eventually most everyone received a manila envelope with an object of inspiration inside. No two objects were the same, and contestants had only two rules: (1) to work the object into the story somehow, and (2) to use, in some way, the phrase “it showed up on my doorstep.”

You, dear readers, did not disappoint.

How could we forget the tales of “Nevermore and the Golden Coin,” of “magic sperm,” of “beloved Cheerios”? How could we forget the submission that was, uh, the same story submitted the year before? How could we forget phrases such as “Like an emblem for Liberace’s cat, it was sparkly and gay as all hell”?

In the end, five stories out of 146 had to be chosen as winners, and believe us when we say it was not an easy decision. That’s why we’ve picked five honorable mention entries: Andy Covert, Thea Rhiannon, Brian Gellman, Lois Pearlman and Noah Hallett, thank you. Virtual silver medals to you all.

Printed below are the five winning stories, by Don Stoddard, Amy Robinson, Diane Swan, Gabriella Buonassisi and Aloysius Beerheart. Each of the winners will receive a gift certificate to Copperfield’s Books. Please join them, and us, in a public reading and celebration on Thursday, Oct. 17, at Acre Coffee in Santa Rosa’s Montgomery Village. The whole soiree goes from 6pm to 7:30pm, all winning entries will be read and discussed, and it’s completely free. We’d love to see you.

Without further ado, the winning stories!

—Gabe Meline

THE BLACK PANTHER

By Don Stoddard

The fuse is lit, soon it will be over.

I’ve never forgotten that night all those years ago. He had been gone so long, decades. I was sure he was dead. He was a likable guy, the kind of person you would do anything for. A smooth talker with a mesmerizing voice with so much to say about the world, and how it could be better. We were young, times were different. Things were wild, free, dangerous, radical. We were a small, inseparable group of social misfits. This is how we spent that summer.

The talks started innocently enough, over coffee, listening as he spoke of the world and the things that weren’t working. He never said how, but we would fix it. We would know when it was time to act, time to make it right. Late that summer, we were gathered at his place, a small unadorned room. He served us his special tea, a deliciously bitter elixir with some definite side effects. He could always come up with a great story, but this night was going to be different.

Different indeed.

As the elixir kicked in, he removed his shirt to reveal a tattooed body like none I’d seen before or since. It was 3-D. He was covered in animals of all kinds, snakes, apes—yes, there were lions, tigers and bears—and creatures no man has ever seen or would hope to see.

The animals were interwoven with geometric symbols, strange alien writings with colors so bright and vivid they could light up a room. Everything was dancing, pulsating hypnotically, as he told his tale and laughed. I saw a black panther begin to pace back and forth, becoming larger and larger until it leapt full-size from his chest right at me. I screamed, and woke alone in my room.

I never saw him or any of the others again. Life went on. I worked, loved, grew older. Then it showed up on my doorstep: a package. In it was a beautiful, porcelain, black panther, crouched and ready to leap. I knew it was from him. He was alive. I broke it open to get my instructions. I knew the others would be getting theirs, too. We would be in sync, no matter how long it been. Things haven’t changed, maybe gotten worse. He was right. It was time. Hypnotized? Perhaps, for here I am watching the sparkle of the fuse waiting, waiting for the end.

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MASS REMEMBRANCE

By Amy Elizabeth Robinson

I want a manicure. I want a new car. I want a chocolate caramel each time I check out at the grocery store. I want my life to be orderly. I want a garden with clipped hedges and bordered beds. I want a better shoe organizer.

What I don’t want is to stand on my doorstep holding this goddamned blood-colored envelope, still damp with the feel of the priest’s fingers pressing it into my hand. I don’t want the feel of his fingers. I don’t want the feel of anyone’s fingers. I want dry bone-colored china in my cabinet and a polyester blanket to wrap around myself at the end of the day.

The priest showed up at my doorstep. He wants me to remember. I don’t want to. Remember the men in your life, he says, a hiss at the back of his words. Remember God the Father above, His Son who came to save us. He pauses, snaking his neck to get a look into my eyes. Remember your father, dear, your very own, God rest his soul.

The sky is flat-gray above us. A candy wrapper rustles by. I want a wrapped-up candy. What I don’t want is the stew of remembrance, mass or otherwise. I don’t want to pay these priests so they can store my rotten memories away in a gilded box, or burn them away to heaven.

Wait . . .

I want my life to be orderly.

Wait, I say, just as he sighs and turns away.

He has one foot still on the doorstep. I hold up a finger, rush into the dark hall, find my purse, dig out some bills, stuff them in the envelope. I hunch over, sticky flap brushing my cheek, and whisper. Fiercely. I give that envelope as many memories as I think it can hold.

I straighten up, smooth my hair, seal the envelope and return to the door. The priest waits, eyes bright and greedy. I hold out the envelope. When he nods and tucks it into his robes, I am washed by the form and certainty he offers the world. I watch as he makes his way down the sidewalk for a while.

Wait . . .

I forgot to write my father’s name on there. The priest never gave me a pen. How will God know those memories are mine? I want to start over again. Wait, I call. It’s too late. He’s already gone.

MS. LILY BROACH

By Diane Swan

I was extruded from a plastic vacuform machine in Hong Kong in MCMLXXXIV. I was affixed to my first bosom in ‘LXXXV; that of an eccentric Chinese grandmother, voted out of the mahjong club for taking up chewing tobacco when the group agreed to quit smoking during games. She was so distraught that, even though I was a gift from her eldest daughter, any reminders of that fateful day were put on the curb.

Fortunately, my sidewalk stay lasted all of 10 minutes, when Patricia picked me up as a lucky token. She wore me everyday to her first job as dishwasher at Denny’s. I was the only piece of jewelry that held up in the steamy room, never fading, scratching or rusting. I was as persistent as she proved to be, until she got promoted to server and tossed the dishwashing apron in the trash with me pinned to it.

Eric/a, sever at Denny’s by day, drag queen by night, greedily rescued me. I was just what she needed to keep her left bra strap from showing when she wore the one-shoulder sarong in the ever-popular Hawaiian encore she performed at the Moose Lodge on alternating Saturday nights. One night, in a fit of passion, Eric/a flung her arms wide for her final curtsey, popping me off her shoulder into the lap of Cecilia.

Blinking twice, looking left then right, Cilly, as she called herself, clasped the broach to her chest in delight. Providence was shining on her in the entity of me, a lily broach, just what Cilly needed to adorn her sweater for piano lessons with Wilber tomorrow. He might pay attention to her instead of the piano lesson with me adorning her flat bosom.

It was Wilber who disappointed her, not me. But she unpinned me from the gray cotton sweater, putting me in the CVS bag along with other discards, to donate to the shelter for its monthly jumble sale.

I don’t honestly remember how I showed up at your doorstep. My hunch is, I got rejected from the costume-jewelry section, tossed in the not-sure-how-to-price pile and ended up in the $5 grab bag with a seed necklace with a broken clasp, a saggy bracelet whose elastic was stretched out, and a plastic watch with no battery. But I assure you, my dear, you will enjoy me. I’m eternal, plastic.

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Tiny Archer

By Aloysius Beerheart

A Tiny Archer showed up at my doorstep the other day. With nary a word he drew an arrow from his quiver and promptly put it through the thick head of a partially articulated Schwarzenegger action figure, leaving a sharp point protruding from the back of Arnold’s prematurely orange scalp.

“Tiny Archer!” I exclaimed. “You have just dispatched a former governor of California and beloved B-movie star!”

“I’m off to Chico to star in The Adventures of Robin Hood, calmly replied the archer, “and I have to eliminate any possible competition.”

I correctly pointed out to the archer that while he was indeed in Technicolor, he was a bit late to star in a movie that wrapped up in 1938. This didn’t seem to bother him at all. I asked him if he also planned to eliminate Errol Flynn, but he said that his next target was Olivia de Havilland, since he intended to play Maid Marian.

It became apparent that the archer was off his meds, so I offered to brew him some Tiger Tea, which he gladly accepted. By the third cup, he had settled down a bit, so we discussed the motion picture arts and archers in popular media. I asked him if he was familiar with the comic book character the Green Arrow. With a disgusted look he said that he would never associate with anyone whose secret identity was Oliver Queen. I had to agree with him there. It would be like creating a hockey team for San Francisco and naming them the Spiders.

It grew late, and the Tiny Archer was running out of topics of conversation. He was beginning to repeat stories from earlier in the evening, and it was decided that he should be on his way. I offered to give him bus fare to Chico, but he said that a ticket to Oroville would be enough, and that he would take public transit from there to his eventual destination in Bidwell Park. He wanted to make the detour so that he could visit the Oroville sites where O. J. Simpson starred in his very first movie. I found this to be a strange request, but knowing the archer, it probably made perfect sense to him. He packed some extra Tiger Tea into his quiver for later use at various stops during the long journey. And with that he found himself Gone with the Wind.

YOU BETTER WATCH OUT, YOU BETTER NOT CRY, YOU BETTER NOT POUT

By Gabriella Buonassisi

I demand to be seen. I will not hesitate to pound my fists on this door until they are bruised and bloody, or shout until my voice is hoarse. Do you know how much it costs to come up here? Do you even realize how far it is? I am not as fortunate as yourself to have magical beasts of burden to transport me across the globe.

I am here to discuss my son, Stanley. Stanley Wellington.

My Stanley has been exceptionally good this year. I assure you I keep precise track of these sorts of things. How can you, Sir, in good conscience not reward:

• All A’s on his report card

• First place in the science fair

• Lead in the school musical

• Winner of the regional under-12 chess tournament

• Starting third baseman in Little League

• Leading rebounder for the school basketball team

• Church choir soloist

• Eagle Scout

• Senior citizen center volunteer

• Junior Recycler of the Year Award winner

And then this . . . this thing shows up on my doorstep. Well, chimneystep or treestep I suppose would be more accurate, but I am not in the business of making up words.

Why on earth would you think a wind-up, pastel purple bunny would be appropriate for a 12-year-old boy? And at this time of year? Was this some kind of cruel joke or bizarre statement? No, this I can only chalk up to a very real, very large lapse in mental capacity. Did you even read the letter he wrote you asking for a mountain bike?

Maybe this is a wake-up call for you to slow down. I am sure your job is extremely stressful. Could you not delegate more responsibility to your, ah, diminutive associates? Listen, none of us is getting any younger, and it is well documented that as one ages, the brain simply does not function as it used to. Perhaps a holiday would be in order. The Caymans really are lovely in January.

Yet the fact remains that you cheated my Stanley, and I will not tolerate it.

I am prepared to stay here for as long as it takes you to make this right. I have hot cider and am covered from head to toe in Versatech gear. I can wait all night. I can wait until next year’s list is prepared if I have to.

Santa Rosa–based psychotherapist Jo Lauer applies her knowledge of the human psyche to a new genre in ‘Best Laid Plans: A Cozy Mystery’ (CreateSpace; $11.69). Her story begins with Jenny Pond, an ex-felon who “hadn’t planned to kill anyone, but fate has a lousy sense of humor.” Jenny meets Shalese, a blue-collar social worker from Detroit, and the two fall in love as they work together at the First Step, a recovery house in San Francisco. Things go afoul when Florence, a wealthy benefactress with a particularly unsavory history, comes along, forcing the relocation of the recovery house to Santa Rosa. Like Orange Is the New Black for the wine country set, the book’s characters—mostly women who’ve spent time in jail for various offenses—only get deeper into mystery and adventure after the big move.—L.C.

Reading stories about a town that used to be famous for making cigars gives a whole new appreciation for the hand-rolled tobacco sticks favored by mobsters, businessmen and Cuban dictators alike. Santa Rosa author Emilio Gonzalez-Llanes’ ‘Cigar City Stories: Tales of Old Ybor City’ (iUniverse; $9.95) is a small but robust first-person account of the city outside of Tampa, Fla., which became a haven for Cuban, Italian and Spanish immigrants with a knack for rolling cigars. Before machine-rolled cigars become commonplace in the 1950s and ’60s, cigars were all rolled by hand. Ybor City was demolished in the 1960s to make way for urban gentrification, but the memories in Cigar City Stories create a visual, vibrant image of diverse life in the city. Whether the smell of a cigar induces salivation or an urge to vomit, Cigar City Stories is a reminder of the history and personality of one of the most luxurious methods of slow suicide.—N.G.

Long revered as a site of archaeological mastery, the ancient Toltec city of Teotihuacán sees a gazillion visitors annually (give or take a bazillion). Though many seek out the 2,000-year-old pyramids in order to simply cross another cool destination off their bucket lists, others view Teotihuacán as a serious power destination that brings all sorts of healing. ‘Dreaming Heaven’ (Agape Media International; $24.95) is the story of one group’s experience with the healing powers of this ancient site. An accompanying guidebook and workbook to the documentary of the same name, Dreaming Heaven is authored by the four guides featured in the film, including Bodega Bay’s Francis Rico, and gives step-by-step instructions to transform life circumstances in 12 short weeks. The book not only comes with the 76-minute DVD, but links to free inspirational downloads as well. That’s a lot of Toltec magic in one package!—D.B.

The Napa Valley of yore was very different from the wine-soaked, spa-laden tourist playground it’s become today. Last year, the Napa Valley Historical Ecology Atlas by Robin Grossinger explored the changes in the ecology of the valley over a span of centuries. Now ‘Run of the Mill: A True Life, Napa Adventure,‘ by Dona Stanley Bakker ($13.95; Pastime Publications), explores an older way of life in the same region, with a focus on five years of the author’s childhood spent living at the historic Bale Grist Mill north of St. Helena. Built circa 1841 by Dr. Edward Turner Bale, the mill ceased operation around 1879, when it was run out of business by larger commercial mill operations in San Francisco and Vallejo. Bakker lived there between 1959 and 1964, after her grandparents were hired on as caretakers, and her book serves both as a celebration of times past and a reminder that every piece of land has hidden, and often fascinating, history.—L.C.

Marin County’s Raymond Welch has worked in the energy industry for 30 years, and his first novel, ‘A Change in the Weather’ (Ice Cap Publishing; $14.99), illustrates his imaginative world of social and political fallout in the face of abrupt climate change. The thriller follows the Russell family during the 10th anniversary of the disappearance of the polar ice cap in 2028. In the story, each family member does what he or she thinks is right in an America of the future that struggles to hold its democratic and Christian values during the wake-up worldwide disaster. The Arctic ice caps have completely melted and rainfall patterns change around the world. As agriculture fails, and the international economy collapses, terrorism surges—and while the Russell family struggles to fight for what they believe is right, their ideas could not be more in conflict.—T.K.

In her debut collection of poetry, Sonoma’s Lisa Summers explores the seasons and contradictions found within the West’s topographic and emotional terrain. ‘Star Thistle and Other Poems’ (FMRL; $12.95) grapples, too, with altered landscapes. A native of the Bay Area, Summers reflects her first-hand experience of witnessing our local environment transform. In “House Finches,” Summers writes: “The only traces of the old farm / its rich soil was buried alive / by sidewalks, roads and houses / are the anise weeds that burst forth / from the memory of good earth / in the last open field.” Drawing on mythology—Kuan Yin, Aphrodite, Eros—Summers explores the psyche, often bringing the reader back to the great vast ocean for a breath of fresh air.—D.B.

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Baseball fans know Amy G as the in-game reporter for the San Francisco Giants, but Petaluma locals know her as the Casa Grande grad who turned her passion for sports into the world’s best job: hanging around the dugout and talking to Matt Cain, Pablo Sandoval, Hunter Pence and the rest of the greats in orange and black. Written for kids, ‘Smarty Marty’s Got Game’ (Cameron + Company; $17.95) is the first book by Amy G (still lives in Petaluma, real last name Gutierrez)—a simple story of an older sister passing on the contagious love of baseball to her younger brother during a day at the ballpark. Because of trademark issues, illustrator Adam McCauley doesn’t use Giants logos in his vibrant full-page images, but the panda hats, garlic-fries stands and giant Coke bottle make it more than evident which team is playing. (Jon Miller’s trademark call “It is outta here!” makes a key appearance.) Of particular interest is the book’s emphasis on scoring the game by hand, something of a forgotten art that might be lost on younger readers—and that, frankly, one sees more frequently over in Oakland. But if Gutierrez’s book reaches its intended audience, there’s no question there’ll be a future audience of scorers for “the greatest game in the world.”—G.M.

Gracianna Winery in Healdsburg is named for co-owner Trini Amador’s great-grandmother Gracianna Lasaga. She also provides the title of Amador’s first book, ‘Gracianna’ (Greenleaf Book Group Press; $24.95), out this fall. Combining fact with fiction, Amador—who works as a principal at BHC Consulting doing brand strategy and insights development—takes World War II and the Nazi occupation of Europe as his novel’s backdrop. Gracianna, a Basque woman who dreams of going to America but is stymied after the escalation of the war, finds herself in a fight to the death after discovering that her sister has been forced into labor at Auschwitz. Summoning all of her courage, she attempts to free her sister and learns about her own strength in the process.—L.C.

‘The Adventures of the Omaha Kid’ (Buffalo Publishing Company of the Napa Valley; $12.99) has sports, celebrity, wine and, of course, romance. St. Helena author Nathaniel Robert Winters has penned the life of Timothy Jacobson, nicknamed “the Omaha Kid,” a crossover sports superstar with an unlikely combination of skills: baseball and tennis. After a successful baseball career, the Kid goes on to compete in the U.S. Open and does very well, and finds himself a superstar almost overnight. But his romantic life doesn’t always fare as well as his swinging sports career. Using many California cities as a setting, Winters chronicles the Kid’s life through the later half of the 20th century. Using the natural drama of sports to build anxiety, the same feeling translates into the Kid’s love life. Will he strike out in love? Or will he, ahem, hit a home run?—N.G.

When Jack London’s Glen Ellen Wolf House caught fire in August 1913, little did London fans realize that the root causes of the incident would remain an unanswerable question over the following hundred years. Sonoma County resident and SSU professor Jonah Raskin attempts to unravel the mystery of what circumstances led the 15,000-square-foot house to its demise with his new chapbook ‘Burning Down the House: Jack London and the 1913 WolfHouse Fire’ (Clone; $5). Raskin interviewed over two dozen people for the chapbook, including local historians, park docents and writer-historian Kevin Starr about thefire, addressing several hypotheses in Burning Down the House. Arson,combustion or an act of self-destruction, the Wolf House fire continues to fascinate and baffle all these years later.—D.B.

‘Tales of Jack the Ripper’ (Word Horde; $15.99), the latest anthology from Petaluma’s Ross E. Lockhart (editor of The Book of Cthulu), marks the 125th anniversary of the Whitechapel slayings. Although the mystery of Jack the Ripper has captured the public’s imagination for over a century—as it is, we don’t know jack about Jack—what we know for certain is that he was a cold-blooded murderer of women. Lockhart’s anthology pulls together 17 stories and two poems from distinct voices in dark fantasy and horror such as Laird Barron, Ramsey Campbell, Ennis Drake and others. Each story illustrates a unique part of Jack the Ripper’s story in varying locales, from his childhood and personal life to those of his victims. Overall, the collection is a unique exploration of the legacy of Jack the Ripper from the point of view of authors of completely different backgrounds, each holding his own vision of the legend.—T.K.

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Katy Byrne began writing “hairballs,” her word for the dark things that we hold in until they metastasize, when she was single and lonely. Part diary entry, part philosophical musing, ‘The Courage to Speak Up: Getting Your Hairballs Out’ (Langmarc Publishing; $16.95) gathers Byrne’s thoughts into book form. A licensed psychotherapist, radio personality and animal rights activist, the Sonoma County resident has poured onto paper her thoughts on love, anger, fear of sex, aging, overeating, the importance of neighbors, friendship, judgment, holidays, money anxiety, the difficulty of moving, family stress, living simply and losing a beloved pet (in her case, a cat named Einstein). The book is interactive by way of three reflection questions included at the end of the chapter, which allows readers to discover—and let go of—their own hairballs.—L.C.

Say you’re an upright bass player. What if you were asked to perform music for one of your least favorite people? In Sebastopol author Bill Amatneek’s case, that’d be a gig offer playing for president George W. Bush, as chronicled in ‘Acoustic Stories: Pickin’ for the Prez and Other Unamplified Tales’ (Vineyard Press; $27). “This was a moral decision,” Amatneek writes, “to entertain or not entertain an immoral man. I wanted to pass it up, but I also wanted to play it.” In the end, Amatneek plays the gig anyway, adding another chapter to a jam-packed book of memorable bass playing jobs. Growing up in a household on Bleecker Street that hosted legends like Pete Seeger and Paul Robeson, Amatneek went on to accompany the likes of Jerry Garcia, Bill Monroe, Peter Rowan, and Peter, Paul & Mary (whom Amatneek still clearly carries a torch for). All those stories are here, as are anecdotes of helping Bob Dylan find the stage in Philadelphia, being sung “Happy Birthday” to by Dionne Warwick, interviewing Aretha Franklin in San Francisco, playing a jazz funeral in New Orleans and many others. Overall, Amatneek’s tone is conversational and not boastful, and places the reader into the action of a life well lived in music.—G.M.

Michael Rinaldini’s ‘Daoist Practice Journal: Come Laugh with Me’ (CreateSpace; $11.98) sheds a light on walking the Taoist path from the author’s unique perspective. A former surfer turned Taoist, in The Daoist Practice Journal, Rinaldini, a Sebastopol resident, compiles journal entries written over the past 20 years. Each entry explains a different aspect of his spiritual journey, from surrendering to his beloved waves to the beauty in a simple cup of tea. The entries include selections from ancient writings in addition to current masters of the Way, and informs readers of the different Taoist practices available for study and practice, covering topics like meditation, qigong, the value of silence and solitude and much more.—T.K.

Ralph Milton Ingols was a guidance counselor at St. Helena High School for over 30 years, and, as you can imagine, he has many stories to tell about student and faculty life. ‘St. Helena High School: The Golden Years’ (Pastime Publications; $13.95), co-written with Napa Valley resident Dona Bakker, collects these tales into one volume. Told in collage fashion, the book combines recollections from students, custodians and faculty, with graduation speeches and introductory essays that give a historical context to each decade, starting in 1941 and running through 1972. Approximately 2,000 students passed through the school’s doors during this time, and they’re all accounted for in comprehensive class lists for each year. The result is an insightful peek into small-town life in a bygone era. With all proceeds benefiting a scholarship fund for current students, the book itself would make a great gift for just about anyone who attended St. Helena High School between 1941 and 1972.—L.C.

As 100.1-FM KZST’s expert CPA, Santa Rosa’s Montgomery Taylor is already known and trusted by many Sonoma County taxpayers. And maybe they want to learn how to become just as successful in life. Montgomery has compiled writings from “the world’s leading experts” in ‘The New Rules of Success’ (Celebrity Press; $19.95) to help you do just that. Though none of the authors is quite a household name, each is successful (in this case, that also means wealthy) in life, and shares a nugget of wisdom on how to achieve your goals. It’s a personal book, with each author writing specifically to you, the reader, using mostly first-person examples. Topics include motivation, customer service, relentless thinking about the customer, raising a family for success, online marketing, managing stress, commitment and more. Taylor writes a chapter himself, detailing his own rise from “farm boy” to “wealth advisor.” With so many different topics and perspectives, it’s a safe bet that if you’re looking to achieve financial success, this book is going to be helpful.—N.G.

Every woman should have a mentor. Mentors provide the inspiration, empowerment and encouragement that we don’t tend to get from greater society. Karilee Halo Shames, a holistic nurse best known for her work with husband Dr. Richard Shames around hypothyroidism, has made it easy to learn from women mentors by compiling their stories in ‘Amazing Mentors: Real Hot Mama’s Path to Power’ (Inkwell Productions; $18). Contributors include Code Pink founder Medea Benjamin, former U.S. congresswoman Lynn Woolsey, healer and chiropractor Shalamah Yahchove, Gen. Clara Adams-Ender and others. “If no leadership exists, step up and bring others along,” says Woolsey in the chapter devoted to her—that’s exactly what Halo Shames has done in compiling these thoughts and interviews.
—L.C.