Tiger Tales by PALASA

Tiger Tales is a collection of original works by the students, faculty, and staff of Southern Crescent Technical College. Copyright ÂŠ 2017 by Southern Crescent Technical College (anthology as a whole) Copyright to individual works retained by their respective artists. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced without prior written permission of the respective artists. Tiger Tales is compiled and edited by The Performing and Literary Arts Student Association (PALASA) at Southern Crescent Technical College.

All literature, artwork, and digital artwork are self-expressions of those who created them and are not intended to represent the views of SCTC PALASA or the Tiger Tales editorial board and its advisors. They do not reflect the views of Southern Crescent Technical College faculty, staff, administration, student body, or the Technical College System of Georgia.

Southern Crescent Technical College is a unit of The Technical College System of Georgia. As set forth in full in the Student Handbook/Course Catalog, Southern Crescent Technical College is an Equal Opportunity Institution and does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, national origin, sex, age or disability.

Tiger Tales A Collection of Creative Writing

Student Editors: Mia Varnadoe and Laurie Pritchett Aulumnus Editor: Johntavious Jones Faculty Advisors: Liz Jester and Holly Smith

Special Thanks to Teresa Nesbitt SCTC Library SCTC Marketing Department The NET @ SCTC PALASA Advisors Liz Jester, Leila Wells Rogers, and Mariah Melquist

In Memorium This inaugural volume of Tiger Tales is dedicated to the memory of Scott Silvis, instructor of paralegal studies at Southern Crescent Technical College from 2005-2016. In addition to being a talented instructor, revered club advisor, beloved colleague, valued friend, and dedicated husband and father, Scott Silvis was also an avid supporter of the arts. He loved music, theatre, and books. He voluntarily served as a faculty reader/judge for PALASAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s literary showcase events for several years, spending hours poring over student writing and offering thoughtful critiques. After fighting valiantly to recover from a major stroke in 2016, Scott suffered serious complications and passed away in April of 2017. Through artistic expression, we attempt to create something bigger than ourselves, to capture the fullness of a moment, the agony of our individual struggles. We attempt to preserve beauty, validate our pain, and transcend our own mortality. Though Scott Silvis no longer walks the halls of Southern Crescent, his years at the college left an unmatched impression thatâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;like art--will be lasting.

iii

For Scott By Liz Jester You will always be show tunes, torches, the scent of citronella, grilled meat, cigars in the backyard. Voice as loud as your certainty of being correct, crossed legs, twinkling eyes, massive heart; voice as gentle as the sincerity of your words. You will always be clippers placed trustingly in my uncertain hands. "Shave it all off. Why not? What is there to lose?" You will always be "To hell with Georgia!" "That's what she said." "I love you." You will always be Lil Jon refusing to line dance, a white tuxedo on a shrimp boat, absinthe over a sugar cube. You will always be the other man present on my first date with my future husband, a hand gently prodding us toward each other's hearts. Orlando New Orleans oysters cocktails poetry My dear friend, you will always be.

Table of Contents Joshua Varnadoe Lilacs

Joseph Russo 1969 Revisited

Jennifer LeGates The Step Father For the Love of Syd Barrett Sacrifice the Dawn

4 5 7

Betty Cain Indian Pot Hot Chicago Night

8 9

Courtney Jordan Flows She

10 11

Vince Skidmore The Skidz

Dain Knuerr Excerpts from Ryvvet: A Steampunk Tale

Teresa Nesbitt Dragon Dance

Laurie Pritchett I Will Never Build You a Table The Princess and the King The Escape

17 18 19

Matt McCartney Moon and Sun

Bonnie Parker Phototropic Puppet

22 23

Liz Jester Idiot Takeover

Bethany Engel Midnight Howl

Susan Chance An East Feudal Breeze

Lashay Lanier Try

Morgan Morris The Monster

Rikki Ridgeway Mortem

Kassidy Brown Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Wait His Lips

34 35

Mia Varnadoe I Remember the 90s

Lilacs By Joshua Varnadoe

1969 Revisited By Joseph Russo The summer of 1969 was the hottest on record for Macon, Georgia, so when my family moved there from Cheyenne, Wyoming, after my Daddy retired from the Air Force, we experienced climate shock as well as culture shock. I met the young man who would become my best friend as we watched an impromptu game of baseball in the Presbyterian church yard. Robert “Bobby” Gaye was an atypical eleven-year-old of the time, slightly overweight, tall but not very athletic. Bob could play the drums like nobody’s business, but he had an annoying habit of drooling a little while concentrating. The Gaye family owned no pets. Mamma Kay Gaye forbade them because his older sister Cathy, stricken with polio at an early age, was allergic. Nevertheless, Bobby Gaye had a way with animals. Ham, my boxerbeagle mix had been known to rip the pants off a boy, yet he was tame as a kitten around Bobby. We domesticated two feral roosters, captured deep in the woods, much to the chagrin of our neighbors. Later in that long ago summer of ’69, an interloper would arrive to test Robert’s bestial ability. I met the Meehoff boys that same day when Mikey, the eldest brother, slapped Bobby’s glasses from his face. “Retard!” sneered Mikey, while Davey pushed him down, bloodying his nose. Born a year apart, these two bullies couldn’t

have appeared more different if the milkman had sired one, and old Jack Meehoff had fathered the other. Short and fat, with red hair, Davey said, “Get up foureyes.” and laughed. “Ol’ fat boy,” spat his big, greasy black-haired brother, as Bobby cried. When I tried to help him, the cowards fell upon me, knees and elbows flying. When it was over, and we lay there in the dirt of that baseball diamond, they walked away without a word, as if nothing had happened, while the others looked down on us and sniggered. Later, as Bob and I limped home, he said, “They’re just mad cause my mom won’t let them come swim in our pool anymore.” They called her “The Old Bat Gaye” for she had banned the two little sociopaths because of

their foul and malicious behavior. A family of carpet-bagging Yankees, these Gayes owned a liquor store, had the only pool in the neighborhood, and worse yet, they were Catholics! No wonder they had drawn the ire of the hateful Meehoffs, a clan of Bible thumping, redneck hypocrites. Bobby said, “I wish we could get ‘em back.” “Me too,” I replied, while vague ideas of revenge crossed my mind. One particular day as our summer vacation was winding down, Bob and I were on our way to climb the “Spike Tree,” a neighborhood icon. Thirty feet in height, you had to have stones to climb the Spike Tree, for the only way up was by 2

the railroad spikes pounded into it by some kid long ago. A voice from a bamboo thicket said, “Hold it right there, d*** skinner, where you girls think you’re going?” “Spike tree,” replied Bob, fear in his voice. It was, of course, the Meehoffs, uglier than a cat’s ass and spoiling for trouble. “Better take the long way around,” said fat Davey, sweating, right in my face, with nauseating breath, “or I’ll kick your butt from here to Unionville, you Yankee lovin’ son of a whore.” “Yeah,” said Mikey, “we built our secret clubhouse right down there by the creek.” Well it ain’t a secret any more, Einstein, I thought. “Got it, gay boy?” said Mikey. “Yeah, I got it,” I said. “Call me Sir, and save yourself an ass whipping,” said Mikey. So I did.

It was hotter than four hells, and the sun was high overhead when we finally arrived. Beneath the towering Spike Tree, we stood, our bare feet in the cool water of Crisso Creek, when I heard a loud ruckus from the hillside. Horrific bellowing and a high-pitched squeal rent the air as a great brown hulk emerged from the brambles and blackberry vines there. The big old sow shook like a fat ugly dog and gazed down on us with red rimmed, bloodshot eyes. “Don’t move a muscle, Bob,” I whispered. As I turned to run, Bobby moved past me and up the hill. I was amazed when he made friends with the beast. Gently, he rubbed her snout and ears, calling her “Sugar” as he patted her rump. Later, as we made our way up the creek toward home, Sugar was our companion.

Half way there, Robert stopped suddenly, climbed aboard the smelly animal, and started riding her for all she was worth, like some half-assed cowboy on a cattle drive. I couldn’t keep up, so Bobby reined her in, and I mounted up, reluctantly. Nice breeze if you don’t mind the stink. We rounded a bend then on old Crisso Creek, and right in front of us was a ramshackle construction of cut pine saplings and old ply board that was the Meehoff boys’ “secret” clubhouse. “Go, Sugar,” said Bobby, “Get up!” I could see smoke rising from the fat cigars they liked to smoke. “Faster!” cried Bob, leaning low, as he pulled and jerked two porcine ears. Sugar transitioned from a trot to a dead run a moment before impact. “Yaaaaaa!” screamed Bobby, and the Meehoff clubhouse was instantly demolished, reduced to splinters. Butt naked they were, when they fell, crying, into the cold water, and I shudder to think what dubious behavior they were engaged in when rousted. Today, I shed a tear when I think of Bobby Gaye, gone ten years this month. As far as I know, he never smoked a cigarette in his life, but lung cancer got him anyway. Now, when I remember a very hot day, long ago, and I think about two young men as they rode away on their steed, Sugar, my tears are of laughter. July 2016

The Step Father By Jennifer LeGates A history, a story A past unexplainable A friendship, a tragedy Understanding unobtainable A family made The missing piece found A house full of love And feet on the ground You took us upon you A man of his word The world on your shoulders Your "I love you" heard So thankful we found you Amid sorrow and ashes Our beautiful sunshine Our rose-colored glasses Live for today Tomorrow's not promised Love fast and love hard Love true and love honest

For the Love of Syd Barrett By Jennifer LeGates A spur of the moment Tea Set The records in Piedmont did let for the use of the Council of Anderson Historically Barritonian Musically Smithsonian With a biological pre-set

A touch of schizophrenia A taste of synesthesia Production of a true Draconian Perhaps a symptom of drug use A bit of internal abuse With a paralyzing paranoia It was not a sudden explosion Rather a gradual implosion A recluse in the making Reverberating destruction The redundancy obstruction In a critical phase of youth With fairytale-like lyrics His dark, lovely appearance His innovation with an ax Just mad enough to be Holy Yet mentally, exiting slowly The Madcap Laughs no more An exacerbated situation Unyielding self damnation Unintentionally breaking the barrier A genius, a mad man The Piper at the gates of dawn Matilda mother, smiling down in favor 5

In afterlife, you are understood You sing inside my soul By your starlight, I am guided Your music plays on ever more Shine on! Shine on! You crazy fool Diamond forever more

Sacrifice the Dawn By Jennifer LeGates Manipulation, degradation A marionette with twisted strings Self-sacrifice, emotional roll of the dice The demon that morning brings Unbreakable, unshakable The lust for love now gone All consuming, unassuming Sacrifice the dawn Doubt and fear, ever flowing tears Confidence decapitation Insistence, persistence Mental mutilation Existential crisis, cold yet iceless The changing of the guard Planetary alignment, cosmic refinement Permanently scarred Conviction, restriction Inhibiting an innocent soul The portal, for mortals Pulsing strong and bold Unbreakable, unshakable Faith in love now gone All consuming, loneliness looming Sacrifice the dawn Ghosts inside veins where Gods used to reign Broken, deceived, forgotten Devils now rule, over the fools Obsessed and ill besotted Ancient power, the aging tower Dreams within the rubble Beauty in death, secrets kept The endless waves of struggle Unbreakable, unshakable The memory of love now gone All consuming, trumpets booming Sacrifice the dawn

Indian Pot By Betty Cain

Hot Chicago Night By Betty Cain It was a hot and rainy night, and fog was rising up from the dark streets of Chicago. I was walking down the side walk round midnight. Looked up and there by the stop sign, under the street light, he stood. Tall, slender built, wearing a trench coat and hat, and smoking a cigarette. The Humphrey Bogart type of guy that makes the ladies melt. He was waiting on the next bus. I asked, “Where are you going?” He replied, “Nowhere in particular. Why you ask?” “No reason,” I said. He looked like one of the Chicago gang members. While standing there, it started raining again. He took off his coat and put it around my shoulders to keep me dry under my umbrella while it poured down. Since it was raining and the bus seemed like it wasn’t coming, he asked, “Would you like to have a drink at the bar down the street?” I said, “Yes.” So we walked down to the bar on the corner of Wilson and Riverwood. It was a small bar with a piano player and very quiet. He ordered a gin and tonic, and I had a rum and coke. We sat in the corner booth and talked for hours. Before we knew it, the sun was coming up. I had to get home and get ready for work. I told him thanks for the drink and that I had a wonderful time. He replied

the same. Now rushing home, all I could do was wonder who that mysterious man was that I was with all night, hoping, just maybe, I would get a chance to see him again.

flows By Courtney Jordan i don’t want any distraction i want action what can you make me feel? everything that flows from me is real my love is not wasted it’s tasted and savored it does not waver it’s pure it’s not the curse but the cure this love is deep it seeps into your soul it is the mold it’s clear it knows no fear this love drowns it goes up there are no downs it’s sweet there are no gaps it is complete this love is abounding it is pounding this love is rare a love that not everyone can bear this love can deliver the type to make your heart quiver are you ready? because i don’t believe in anything unsteady so, what can you make me feel? everything that flows from me is real

she By Courtney Jordan she wasn’t afraid to trust her intuition she was a free spirit, a wild child and did i forget to mention she followed her heart the only way she knew how to love was hard she always did her part she was the type of girl who made you feel and if you didn’t realize what you had then you would learn what it’s like to lose something real you couldn’t use her flaws against her she embraced them proudly and when she didn’t agree with someone or something she didn’t bite her tongue she proclaimed her opinions loudly see she didn’t need anyone to remind her that she was a queen she had self-love, self-respect, and she had dreams she was God’s creation, fearfully and wonderfully made she’s the type to walk out in darkness and when the world feels her presence suddenly the sun beams

The Skidz By Vince Skidmore

Excerpts from Ryvvet A Steampunk Tale By Dain Knuerr Quinn hailed for the first airship that sailed to the shipyards to dock. It was a large airship, green, and very finely detailed. She could tell that it was designed for very important people, not like the regular cruiser ships that large merchants would have. Much more official looking.

As it settled into place and anchored, a rather arrogant looking man in green formal navy attire departed the ship and onto the docks. As Quinn took notice of the flags of the ship, she saw that they bore the Golden Bear, the mark of the Sudic States, the country to the south of the Aelvion Republic. He inspected Quinn and seemed to have arrived at the conclusion that he needed to find the actual dockworker. Quinn immediately tried to regain his attention, to which the man impatiently replied. "What do you want, you vagrant?" the man asked, paying little attention to Quinn as he walked. Hurriedly attempted to keep up the man's pace, she replied, "Um... What do you need to be looked at?" With a sigh, the man replied, "Child, I don't have time for distractions. If you could direct me to one of the dockworkers here, then you might actually be useful. Otherwiseâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; " He was cut off. "But, sir, I am a dockworker." The man stopped and then returned his impatient gaze to Quinn. Quinn made sure to flash the bronze Falcon seal that signified she worked for the Aelvion Republic Working Collective. He seemed more annoyed than relieved to have found the person he was looking for though. It was at this time that Malkovich was returning up the dock with the bags, meeting with Quinn and the Sudic Navyman. The Navyman turned to Malkovich and

immediately started to report his needs to him. "Ah, yes, sir, my ship is in need of a routine checkup. It's a Fagelavkreig Class II, modified with an Aelvion Ayl Dusang combustion engine." He turned to rear of his ship, to the Ayl Dusang engine that was improperly installed. "The Ayl Dusang seems to be malfunctioning...not surprising given that it's Aelvion, but we'd heard rumors that it was superior. Given that it's not working, we want you to either repair or replace the engine. We'll be in town for three days, and we're in a hurry, so speed things along rather quickly, or we'll take it up with the Negotious." 13

About two sentences into his request, Malkovich already seemed lost but saw that Quinn understood what was asked. He grinned and nodded, grabbing the Navyman's hand tightly, squeezing and shaking it. He responded, "Of course, sir. We will get to working on it immediately. Sosanya Kuey." The Navyman was shaken up a bit from the handshake, but nodded, not picking up on the insult Malkovich just said to him in Gavinian. He marched off as several other Sudic soldiers disembarked the ship, glaring at Quinn and Malkovich as they marched towards the city. ……………………

Quinn was properly harnessed and tied to the ship, and she began to rappel down the side of it to begin working. Just under the Ayl Dusang engine were the rear rotary blades to push the ship forward in the air. Quinn stood on the mast and trunnion of it, right between the blades and where it connected to the ship. She had brought down the drill to drill into the shafts of the rivets to take them out. She'd proceeded very quickly and almost finished removing all the bolts from the bottom of the ship. Malkovich stood over, having secured the engine on the crane attached to the dock. Drilling the last bit, the engine slowly fell from the ship and was successfully detached. Quinn would just need to remove the cables connecting it to the main controls of the ship, so that it could move properly. Quinn

breathed a sigh of relief, as her arms dropped from having to hold the drill up in the air for so long. It was at this point, though, that she slowly felt her feet shifting, the rotary blade winding up and turning. She slipped from the mast of it and immediately gripped onto the bottom of the engine. The blade began spinning quicker and quicker, Quinn having to pull her legs up to avoid risk of getting caught up in its pull. She could feel the ship rocking, suddenly. In a few seconds, the strong Malkovich's head popped up over the edge of the ship. …………………… She miscalculated. She was knocked forward, avoiding the blade, but now plummeting towards the ground. She spun around expecting to see Malkovich looking down at her, but instead, she caught sight of the exhaust of the engine spitting out fire. The loud wind rushing in her ears didn't deafen her enough to hear Malkovich screaming. The fire died, and soon, Malkovich was plummeting with her, his arm scorched black. They were in freefall.

Quinn shut her eyes, knowing she'd messed up majorly. She thought of what caused the rear rotary to start up. If it wasn't on purpose, she might've nicked one of the cables when she was drilling. But the engine started up as well, and that requires multiple catalysts to fully work. It may have been because of how haphazardly it was put together, but it just wasn't as likely as the alternative. It had been started on purpose. Her thoughts shifted to who. She didn't make any enemies in her life, nor did she overtake anyone's chances of getting a job, so that was ruled out. Someone who didn't like her family? Possible, but considering their standings, it was unlikely. Someone from a private company? She wasn't important enough. Government? Same reason. Maybe it wasn't for her...

The rotary engine failed, but they went out of their way to turn the engine on. Maybe it was really meant for --……………………

Dragon Dance By Teresa Nesbitt

I will never build you a table By Laurie Pritchett I will never build you a table, my love, I would do most anything else my dear, even train a dove, But, never will I ever build you a table, my love. To be honest, I wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t build you a chair either Or a chifferobe neither. I would buy you a bed, But to build it, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d rather be dead. For that matter I will never build you any piece of furniture. So, if you set that Ikea box in front of me, I will pick up that hammer and you will see Me smash that box with great glee. I will never build you a table, my love.

Princess and King By Laurie Pritchett This poem is dedicated to the memory of Carrie Fisher and David Bowie. What a year 2016 has been. We have lost our rebel princess and our goblin king. The force will remain with us, Though our hearts be heavy. Oh princess, our princess, my princess, You will never truly die. You taught us all to be brave and true. The king is dead, but Long will he live In our hearts and our minds, Deep within the labyrinth Deep within the underground.

The Escape By Laurie Pritchett Lettie stared at the bloody chopstick in her hand. She had done it. The act she had been dreaming and dreaming of for months. She had grabbed one of the chopsticks that held her hair up in that ridiculously complicated hairstyle that took hours to create and only moments to undo. She didn’t think it would be sharp enough to draw blood, let alone pierce the male Phrenian’s body. But with enough force placed upon the piece of wood, it made a very deadly weapon. Funny what will motivate a person. He had raped her, beaten her, and verbally assaulted her, but his comment on what he thought the little girl would look like in ten years was what had finally made her snap. Then Amberlynn had come in. She stared at the dead Phrenian for a moment and said quietly, “You ungrateful little bitch.” She had then slowly advanced towards Lettie. “I loved him, and you killed him.” Rather than feeling any sort of guilt or remorse, Lettie felt pure rage and betrayal flow through her. Amberlynn had been the first person to seem to care about her. She had made Lettie feel special, like a sister. She had delivered Lettie to this Phrenian like a lamb to slaughter. Lettie threw herself at the woman with a scream and delivered all her anger, grief, and fear into the woman. Afterwards, Lettie sat there, in her thin nightgown and

robe, covered in blood. She began to shiver. She supposed she had proved the Phrenians right. Humans were a violent, barbaric race. They killed and hurt each other, they abandoned their young, they were motivated by greed and their multiple addictions. Suddenly Lettie began to laugh. Maybe humans and Phrenians weren’t so different after all. She knew the authorities would come soon. Lettie was tired; she wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. She stood up and found the bottle of Dram. She downed the almost-full bottle. She grabbed a shawl from the closet and was about to lie on the floor when she heard a noise. She realized she had one last thing to do. Lettie stared at the keycard in her hand and then at the woman and child frantically pulling at the door. She glided to them, her elegant gait second nature to her. How many hours, days, weeks, months, years she had been taught to walk this way? For it all to end this way—in pain and suffering, drug-fueled parties, blood and death. Now they were teaching the child, but not anymore. Lettie fought to keep her concentration, for the Dram was already starting to take effect. But first she had to help them.

She didn’t know what the pair would find outdoors. Escape?

Capture? Death? Surely a better fate than if they remained. The woman was oblivious to Lettie’s approach, but the little girl saw her and froze. Lettie tried 19

smiling at the child to reassure her that she meant no harm. The woman finally sensed her and turned around. Lettie gently slid around her, swiped the card, and entered the code. They had never bothered to hide it from her. They’d assumed she was too drugged or stupid to know what was going on. The door opened and Lettie turned to them. “You need to go now,” she said in a low voice. “The authorities will be here soon. Take care of the child.” The woman shook her head. Why couldn’t Lettie have had a nanny this caring when she was a child? “Lettie, you can’t stay here. Come with us.” This woman knew her, but Lettie couldn’t recall her name.

“Please come with us, Lettie.” Now the child was begging and pulling on Lettie’s gown. She couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old. Lettie pulled off her shawl and wrapped it around the child. “I have to do something first, sweetheart. Would you take care of this for me?” It was a plain shawl, but it would keep the child warm. She stood up and spoke in the woman’s ear. “I can’t come with you. I’ve killed two of them, and they would hunt me down. But you and the child are just a pair of runaways. Now go!” Lettie almost shouted the last sentence while pushing them out the door. The woman took the child’s hand and ran into the night.

Lettie was satisfied; for the first time in her short life, she was at peace. She was so tired and cold. She pulled a thick blanket draped carelessly across a small sofa around her and fell into a deep-drug induced sleep. She was ready to die. But the authorities came much sooner than Lettie anticipated. The woman and child were long gone, but Lettie was not. Neither were the two Phrenians that Lettie had brutally stabbed.

Moon and Sun By Matt McCartney

Phototropic

By Bonnie Parker I am a flower. I must have the light. The clouds only hide the sun for a fleeting moment. The night only makes me crave the brilliance more. I bend toward the light.

I bend toward life.

Puppet By Bonnie Parker If I am a puppetâ&#x20AC;Ś I cannot cry, I cannot fall, I feel no pain, I will not betray, My heart will not ache, I cannot hate. But if I am a puppetâ&#x20AC;Ś I cannot laugh, I cannot dance, I feel no joy, I will not trust, My heart will not thrive, I cannot love.

Idiot Takeover By Liz Jester Somehow, the idiot got promoted. Rumors buzzed about like mosquitoes, slipping into your ear despite your best efforts to avoid them. He bought 400 boxes of Girl Scout cookies from the boss’s daughter. He married the boss’s niece. He had some juicy piece of blackmail on the boss. The list went on and on. No one understood how the idiot could have been named VP when he wasn’t even competent at being a peon like the rest of us. Then, a strange thing happened. Vice President Idiot named the second biggest idiot in this place director of operations. Now VP Idiot and Director Idiot were responsible for running the joint, and the rest of us were in shock. How could we answer to idiots? How could we achieve job satisfaction knowing our work was valued less than that of these two yahoos? The shift was swifter than any of us realized—so swift it went largely unnoticed, like a ninja. Idiots started emerging everywhere. When the phone rang, the new assistant tried to answer the stapler and had to go to the emergency room. The security guard left his gun on the paper towel dispenser in the rest room and sent out an email asking for someone to kindly return it; the email was riddled with errors. Even the associate who had shared our office suite for years without

incident suddenly forgot to wear pants to work or chew with his mouth closed. One by one, each was commended for astounding achievements in idiocy. The associate was praised in a staff meeting and given a plaque; the security guard’s email was replied to by the boss with glowing admiration for his innovation in locating the missing firearm; the assistant, upon returning to work, was thrown a party—complete with cake and ice cream—for her bravery. Pretty soon, it seemed the place was being completely overrun by idiots, and those of us still clinging to our intelligence like a flagpole in a tornado began to fear we might not be able to fight it. An underground emerged. We developed a secret hand signal to identify each other. During breaks, we would slip onto the roof to meet, wedging a stick in the door so that we wouldn’t get locked out. We knew the idiots wouldn’t follow because they were all too afraid of becoming trapped and dying up there. It had happened to six of them before the rest had gained enough sense to be afraid. During our surreptitious meetings, we engaged in intelligent conversation. We shared what we were reading, discussed current events, and most dangerously, debated how to rid the place of all the idiots. We made a pact not to rely on our smart phones for straightforward tasks such as addition or the spelling of simple 24

words, but determined that looking up information online was safe, as long as we didn’t use Wikipedia. Sometimes we would download and watch episodes of Jeopardy, just to keep our brains sharp. Fifteen minutes at a time, we reminded ourselves and one another that resistance, though futile, was necessary for survival. Eventually, it became clear to us that there was only one plan of attack: We had to infiltrate the idiocracy at its highest level. After much discussion, it was determined that the only way to gain the intel we needed was to plant a spy. Smith volunteered, and we promised to take care of his family should he be found out or turned idiot while behind enemy lines. The next day he started crying hysterically and tipped his computer monitor onto its left side. When the assistant

asked what was wrong, Smith managed to choke out, “My letters have all fallen over.” When she looked at his screen and saw the italicized text on his word document, she gasped. “You’re right!” she exclaimed. By the afternoon, word had gotten around, and the big boss called Smith to her office for an immediate promotion. Smith was dubbed coordinator of special projects, reporting directly to Vice President Idiot himself. In his new role, he gave a masterful performance. The first day in his new position, Smith lost important paperwork, mistakenly ordered 10,000 rather than 100 new chairs for the cafeteria, and mangled every email with unclear responses, missing attachments, and/or the wrong person’s address in the

“To” line. He cost the company thousands of dollars and effectively blamed it on an intelligent, experienced employee, who was immediately terminated. In this manner, it took no time at all for Smith to be accepted into the inner circle of upper management and begin to learn their secrets. He was asked to sit in on meetings and even to go to lunch on occasion with the big boss herself. More than two weeks passed, and the resistance began to worry. None of us had made direct contact with Smith since he went undercover. Then, one day, it happened. He appeared on the roof during one of our “smoke break” trivia exercises. “I understand,” Smith forced out, pale-faced and clearly rattled. “What?” we all cried out, “What have you discovered? How do we take down the idiocracy?” “It’s…it’s… impenetrable,” Smith stammered. “What do you mean? There’s got to be something we can do!” “It works like this,” Smith continued, with more strength now that he was warming in the glow of intelligence for the first time in weeks. “The big boss. She’s…a tremendous idiot. I mean, she can’t even spell her own name. It’s…astounding. She eats York Peppermint Patties so that she doesn’t have to brush her teeth. She…she thinks yellow M&Ms are banana flavored.”

We all held our breaths in collective disbelief at what we were hearing. Smith continued. “The crazy thing is, as incompetent as she is, she realizes that the people who report immediately to her shouldn’t be smarter than her. She knows that the boss is supposed to be top dog and that everyone else should look up to and respect her, so she fixes the problem. She finds someone slightly more idiotic than herself to name her right-hand man, hence the coronation of Vice President Idiot.” “Wow,” two or three of us let slip out. “Oh, there’s more,” Smith responded without hesitation. “Somehow Vice President Idiot, who can’t remember from day to day whether he’s right-handed or

left, figures out the same thing. How is he supposed to order folks around who think they are smarter than him? So, he promotes the biggest idiot he can find to be his assistant.” At this, Smith paused and gulped forebodingly. “And every person who shows they are capable of being a bigger idiot than the next gets promoted until the idiots are all at the top and only the intelligent, competent folks are left wallowing at the bottom of the food chain,” Billings finished for him. “It all makes sense now.” Silence fell over us for a few moments as we all let the realization sink in. It was more horrifying than we could have ever imagined. “I can’t do it anymore,” Smith suddenly cried out, and tearing at his hair, he

broke from the circle and sprinted toward the roof’s edge. It happened too quickly for any of us to react. Before we could even register what was happening, we saw the bottoms of his wingtips disappear over the side, and several seconds later, heard the soft thud of his body meeting the sidewalk below. The rest of us silently nodded our comprehension, too terrified for words. We understood immediately what this meant for us. There was no escape. It was just as Smith had said. The idiocracy was solid, impenetrable. Our only hope for survival was assimilation. We could not live a double life as Smith had these past few weeks, feigning idiocy while secretly longing to produce competent work and hold intellectually meaningful conversations. It would destroy us. Our only choice was to give ourselves over to it, completely. Resigned to survive, I lifted my head, tucked my cardigan into the back of my pants, slipped off one shoe, and with my thumb in my ear, delivered with supreme confidence and soaring bits of saliva what would become my mantra in the coming years when I would reign supreme as the big boss myself, “Gobble snook diddy batch!”

Midnight Howl By Bethany Engel

An East Feudal Breeze By Susan Chance Gentle sounds of edge-blown aerophones taper off the unpleasant swift of time from a harsh day with it's harmonious nocturne waves. These soft winds blow in from the far east with cherry blossoms dancing in their breeze. The sight gives imagery that never rescinds as its sensory combined takes me back in time. And what is beheld in my mind's sight that takes me on a journey in feudal time with noble Samurai? A culture of hand forged swords extending from these fearsome warrior's souls; immersed in honor and discipline, driven to serve great lords, with obedience linked to stricken code. I picture blood from their swords fusing with all externally; they depart in honor with no recourse. As the sounds from the wind fade into the night like drifting fog from the mountainside, I close my eyes.

Try By Lashay Lanier You're watching me...aren't you? I feel your eyes on my skin. The words want to come out but you fight to hold them in "Kiss Me" And yes, I'm trying to pretend That there isn't so much heat I think I'm burning for my sins. You notice... Every little thing about me. You're looking at me now like "Darling, you don't see what I see." You take a step away cause you can see yourself drowning. Come a little closer please. You've already drowned me. A song... has a chorus for a reason. You might think what's in a verse But it's not what your heart's repeating. A verse discusses what you want but the chorus is what you're needing. Though you stand away from me I Can see your heart...beating. Slowly, I can see your thoughts unfolding. Until you've felt me on the inside You don't really know me. Do you? And what would knowing do to you? Would it teach you an attachment more adhesive than Gorilla glue? Are you afraid I'll cum and go though I've gotten to know and touch and feel you? While you're all up in your feels too? Trust me when I say, I feel you. The both of us are hanging tough But we're shocked by all the static. We thought we would have chemistry Instead, we made magic! The climax could be beautiful the ending could be tragic But not trying seems to me to be: erratic. 29

I don't want to make a mistake here. I want to run away but my heart is saying "Stay here!" Thoughts of making love to you make me warm and they make fear I'm looking down, terrified, like I've just seen a fucking snake here! I exhale... And then my eyes find your own. It seems we've wandered off from home but right here's where we belong. You remind yourself that you're "together" but everyday you feel alone But still the righteousness we feel won't right the wrong... So yes I know it would be wrong but it would be ours.... Like the stars that have aligned for you and I. You agree, mentally, and then you kiss me. Our magic is a mistake but still we...try.

The Monster By Morgan Morris The harder the monster scratched away at its forearm, the quicker the flesh fell away. From outside the containment unit, Dr. Elana Miles and Dr. Mark Rustenburg watched in dismay as the monster, which was once a human, clawed away at what was left of its skin. The time it took it to complete this task was merely seconds. Marvelous. It was as if this was the thing’s natural instinct. “Bring in the next test subject. I wonder how fast the next one will tear off its flesh.” Dr. Rustenburg examined the test subject some more before continuing,

“What do you think about all this, Dr. Miles?” “I think that I'm going to like it here,” Dr. Miles put an unsettling smile on her face when she said this. Dr. Miles didn’t feel that she could have said anything else at that moment that would have made her colleague happy. She got the vibe that he was just as sinister as he seemed. His approving look only proved her suspicions to be true. She didn’t want to turn into another one of his test subjects. “Dr. Stacy, would you please bring in the next test subject?” Dr. Rustenburg motioned for the clean-up crew to erase the evidence of what happened in there moments ago. “Yes, Sir,” commented Dr. Stacey, a doctor that Dr. Miles had never seen

before. Dr. Stacy had thick, pin-point straight black hair and creamy, hazel eyes. Dr. Miles would have never thought that a normal looking woman could work in a setting like this. Dr. Miles could only imagine the environment where the rest of the test subjects were kept. She’d seen glimpses of the room but had never walked in there. Dr. Miles felt, deep down, that if she walked in there, she wouldn’t want to come out. Whether it be because she would want to save all of them or that she wouldn’t know which one to murder next. The look that Dr. Rustenburg always had on his face was there once again when Dr. Stacy entered with the next subject. Dr. Miles could only describe that look as pure insanity. For the second time today, Dr. Miles watched in dismay as the psychotic man grabbed the test subject from Dr. Stacy and put it into the containment unit. Dr. Rustenburg chained the creature to the floor by its right ankle to make sure it couldn’t run away. Dr. Miles wished that she would have chosen to transfer to a different department. Today was Dr. Miles’ first day in this department. The other department before this one quickly became too crowded when the new boss, Dr. Rustenburg, was hired. The new employees in the other department took her 31

hours, which in turn took her pay as well. Dr. Miles finally realized why everyone transferred out of this department: They didn’t have the love for torture. They couldn’t watch Dr. Rustenburg kill humans in the meanest way possible. They couldn’t bear the sound of the creature screaming out for help. They couldn’t go home that night knowing that they would have to get up and do it all over again the next day. Dr. Miles won’t admit this to anyone, but Dr. Rustenburg persuaded her to transfer. He told her that she had “the same look in her eyes” as he does. When he said that initially, she didn’t understand what he meant by that. Now she knew exactly what he meant. Dr. Miles had the love for torture. She could listen to the

creatures writhe in agony and somehow produce a smile on her face afterwards. She could go home and forget what she did while she was at work. Dr. Miles surprised herself when she didn’t puke the minute she saw the vast amounts of blood in the containment unit. The blood was everywhere. On the walls, the ceiling, the door, the windows, etc. Most of the blood was in a pool on the tile floor where the creature slumped once its heart stopped beating. Dr. Miles wondered what else she had in common with the psychotic Dr. Rustenburg. Dr. Miles realized, within the last couple seconds, that she couldn’t continue working here. She wouldn’t continue working here. If she stayed here any longer, then she would turn out just like Dr. Rustenburg. That thought sent panic through

Dr. Miles’ brain. With these thoughts running through her brain, Dr. Miles watched Dr. Rustenburg finish up with the new test subject and close the steel door to the containment unit. Dr. Miles watched Dr. Rustenburg come back into the room, but before he could utter a word, Dr. Miles blurted out, "Can I speak with you for a moment, Dr. Rustenburg?" He nodded his head and followed behind Dr. Miles to a secluded corner of the room. Once she knew she had his full attention, she said, "I'm sorry to spring this on you, but I quit. I'll be emailing you my resignation letter later today." "But why? I don't understand. I thought you loved working here," Dr. Rustenburg replied, the shock evident in his tone. "I do love it here, but because of that, I have to leave. I'm too afraid of what I will become if I stay here any longer. I really hope you understand." Without uttering another word, Dr. Rustenburg nodded and turned back around to the new subject. As Dr. Miles left the room, she heard Dr. Rustenburg mutter a remark under his breath that sent goosebumps down her back: “Now, let’s see what this one will do.”

Mortem By Rikki Ridgeway

Don’t Wait By Kassidy Brown Guy’s P.O.V Like sand in an hourglass I would hate for it to be the end And we’ve never talked Chances like this are one in a million So why wait I like you You like me The time is right, right? Go for it Nerves take over Anxiously awaiting, hoping, praying What will the answer be? Will I see it on her face, the way she blushes Her smile, the way she crinkles her nose Her eyes, the way she lights up God, I hope she says yes

Girl’s P.O.V Gosh I didn’t know I could fall for him the way I did But the way he looks at me, he makes me feel like the only girl in the world It’s almost cosmic in a way The way he smiles at me, makes me smile His laughter is so contagious, it’s hard not to laugh He is wonderfully amazing If only I could talk to him He makes me so nervous, I can barely find the words to speak The spark is there, I know it is Your eyes tell a story you have yet to finish And one day soon I will tell him I like you

His Lips By Kassidy Brown They’re different Unique in a way It’s a signature A mystery of why A comma of I’ll be back An exclamation point of fireworks

Illustrated all for me Popup books of wow No way could they be his But belong to me The curves of his lips Pressed against mine The heat, The passion The fire behind left me Breathless, knees weak Eyes glimmering like diamonds His lips changed me But his kiss made me

I Remember the 90s By Mia Varnadoe I remember my first day of first grade. It was a Monday and my teacher’s name was Mrs. Monday. I remember when Mrs. Monday asked me how to spell ‘dictionary.’ I did not know. I remember when they told me that I was going to repeat the first grade. They told me it was because I was too small. I made sure I knew how to spell ‘dictionary’ that summer. I remember moving two streets over. I got a new room and a new mother. I remember Joey, my first love. And Jennifer, whom he loved. I loved the tropical thunderstorms that would sweep over the ocean. My family would bunch into the car and drive to Deerfield Beach, Florida. I can never forget how the lightning would streak the black sky like a crack behind a mirror. We’d run against the wind and the stinging rain, dive into the ocean, and feel the burn of the

saltwater running up our nose. We were not afraid of undercurrents, sharks, or electric shocks. We’d run out and return home. I remember Hurricane Andrew and the mess it left behind. I remember how much I loved ice cream trucks, and the boy who got hit by a van crossing the street for a Push-Up. I remember learning how to ride a bike. I rode every day until I broke my front tooth across the handle bar. I never rode again. I will never forget how all of the kids in the neighborhood gathered in front of our television to watch the first episode of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. We all had the same birthday theme that year. I remember writing my first poem in third grade. My teacher loved it so much she hung it on the wall. It was about a frog, but that was all I could remember.

Everything we learned was through PBS. The Magic School Bus taught us grammar, Reading Rainbow taught us reading, Bill Nye taught us science, and Mr. Rogers taught us morals. I wrote my first essay for a contest. I read it aloud in class and won the first round. I did not continue after reading it in front of the school. I remember moving to North Florida. My father, born and raised in New York City, wanted to give the country life a try.

I remember the first time I rode a horse. It belonged to Heather. We decided to take it to the lake without asking her parents. It saw a snake, threw us off, and then ran away into the thick woods. We spent the next two hours roaming around looking for it and then tried to come up with a lie for how we lost the horse. It returned home. We were grounded. I will always preserve the memory of sleeping on the trampoline. After midnight, dozens of stars shot across the sky. I imagined it to be a battle between two space ships.

I remember when fashion became important. We wore bodysuits, Bongo jeans, Keds, and scruncies. Jean jackets were a necessity. The more it was bedazzled, the more you were in. By the time I figured it out, it changed. Fashion moved from tapered jeans to bell-bottoms. Jean legs seemed to get wider through the rest of the decade. I will never forget my first boyfriend, Stephen Knox. He always sat in the back of the bus and never talked to anyone. I remember thinking how cute his blonde rattail was. We dated for a week and never spoke again. I remember my first kiss by a boy named Dustin. Dustin had emerald green eyes. He was so small he sat on my lap. In fifth grade, I wrote another essay about my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s favorite tie. It won second place in the Ugliest Tie Contest. My award was books, and it was worth it. I remember when my brother Alex was born.

I remember the family portrait shattering to pieces. I wrote my first short story. A kid on the bus found it and read it aloud. Everyone laughed. I was so embarrassed, I never wrote again. I remember moving to New Jersey to live with my mother. Other than our appearance and laugh, we had nothing in common. She tried to tell me how much we are alike. I smiled and nodded. We had nothing in common. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember how we managed without cell-phones, but we did. I remember moving back to Florida. I remember my first cigarette. My first rum and Coke. I never understood why people liked marijuana so much. It made me sick, and the walls would not stop moving.

I remember when Prince re-released â&#x20AC;&#x153;1999.â&#x20AC;? And I partied. I remember moving to Chicago. My father worked a lot, and our apartment became the party house. I remember my rights, but forgot the charges. I hated the feeling of the cold metal handcuffs against my wrists. I remember how I would slip them off when the officer was not looking, and then on again once he turned around. I would never forget how he glared at me with hatred. I remember the 700-mile drive to New York. The perfect looking school in the middle of nowhere. The six-foot man saying that I was their new resident. The first Christmas alone.

Mission Statement: PALASA is committed to providing an outlet for the performing and creative writing talents of SCTC students; promoting interest in the performing and literary arts within the SCTC community; introducing members to quality theater and literature though meetings, guest speakers, and co-curricular learning; sharing information and experiences about performing arts and creative writing; and producing high quality student showcases and a literary publication.