Fort
VOLUME 1, ISSUE 2
Art by John Sletmoen
Top 10 Grossest Jelly Belly Flavours
By Bailley Strom
Found in the BeanBoozled™ flavours
10. Booger
9. Toothpaste
8. Baby wipes
7. Pencil Shavings
6. Centipede
5. Canned dog food
4. Moldy cheese
3. Rotten egg
2. Barf
1. Skunk spray
CALL THE COPS, LITTLE SHOPPA
HORRORS—YAY, YAY YAY YAY YAAY
By Scott Walsh
Little Shop of Horrors – by Fort High Muskie Productions
Starring Christina Empey, David Loney, and Nelson Bragg, this musical
tells the story of a man-eating plant and his desire to take over the world.
And it was amazing.
Organized by Lisa Loney, this musical had little chorus work and a
heavy focus on the nine leads. Little Shop of Horrors is one of the most
well-known musicals in North America, having had a feature film in 1986
and being referenced in television shows like Family Guy. Remember the
creepy old man Herbert, the song he sings where he is in the 1950’s and
married to Chris? That was completely stolen from Little Shop of Horrors.
The show went smashingly well, and was aided by an amazing pit band
who learned their music in less than two weeks and techies who spent all
their time learning how to work the lights and stage direction. For all those
who missed it, make sure to come next year.
FORT HIGH FISH
VOLUME 1 ISSUE
TANK
2
APRIL
2010
Page 2
Dare You to Move by Sara Kellar
Betrayal was painful.
That’s what this was. Blatant betrayal. My dad glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t say a
word. This infuriated me more; his silence acknowledged that he knew how I was feeling, and it told me he wasn’t
going to do anything about it.
Complete, utter betrayal.
“Dad?”
His eyes once again flashed to me, and appraised me until he deemed it necessary to return his gaze to the
road. His look was hopeful. “Kaia?”
Time to shoot down that hope. “I hate you.”
I knew I sounded like an angsty teenager, but my hate was justified. He had divorced his wife, my mother,
on her deathbed. He had sent me to a stupid boarding school shortly after, and got remarried and redivoced in
the span of a week. We had been slated to travel together for two weeks at least, but, apparently, ‘something
came up’, and I was being carted to my grandfather’s house.
My mother’s father’s house.
My mom’s dad.
It didn’t take a genius to realize that my presence slightly hindered my father’s bachelor lifestyle. Especially
if he was going to measures such as this.
I hadn’t seen my grandfather since I was six.
My father sighed, hazel eyes wearily concentrated on the road. “I know.”
I carefully observed the aged man before me. “I’m Kaia. Kaia McMichaels.”
He inhaled deeply, eyes focused on my face. He couldn’t have been a day over fifty-five, and that startled
me. “You are.”
I closed my eyes, breathing as steadily as I could. They had told me that establishing known facts, solid
truth, helped with these types of things. The changing of comfort zones, and whatnot. Would I ever be comfortable here?
“You’re my mom’s dad. Kiril Chessa.”
You didn’t even call.
A bemused smile crossed his face momentarily, but it was gone after my dad gave him a stern look. “I am,”
Kiril answered calmly.
I took a deep breath. “That would make you my grandfather.”
“No.”
My eyes, which had been focused on a spot over his shoulder, snapped to his in panic, but that stupid
smile was still on his face. My father hissed; he had never liked Kiril much, judging from the stories that I had
heard. It was because of those stories that I didn’t entirely know what I had been brought here.
“Kiril,” my father murmured warningly, and it appeared to do the job. Kiril sighed, smile erased with the
wipe of a hand across his mouth.
“Jaret,” he replied, voice, for the most part, strong. However, there had been a slight hitch in his voice—
conceding defeat?
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VOLUME
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ISSUE
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I hated him for it. My dad really wasn’t that scary.
I returned my focus to establishing foundations rather quickly, wanting to erase the disappointment that I
had in Kiril from my mind. My eyes once again focused on the point over his shoulder, and I could feel my dad’s
calculating and protective gaze on my back.
It was a rotten start to my stay.
My dad stayed the first night, camping out on the pullout while I got the spare (my mother’s) room. Kiril had
insisted that my father ‘got a quick start’ to his ‘business trip’ (all of us knew that his trip was for anything but
business), but my dad was adamant. He had even pulled out the couch before Kiril had given a definite yes.
Kiril had once again given in without a fight. My frustration with him grew.
I turned in early, and (unfortunately), was conscious during my father and Kiril’s late night conversation. It
confused me how they managed to pull off the ‘we hate each other’s guts’ charade when I was in the room, but
they could act perfectly cordial when it was only them.
It was my dad’s voice that I had honed in on first. The words were quiet. “I won't be back until August.”
Kiril was quick to respond. “That’s two months, Jaret. She’s a teenager. I’m her boring grandfather. When
you had been a teenager, you affectionately referred to this house as being ‘in the middle of goddamned nowhere’.” Kiril sighed heavily, and I could hear him run a hand through his thick hair. “She’ll try to run away by the
end of this week, Jaret. You just watch.”
My dad’s tone, when he spoke, was slightly humoured. “She’s a spitfire, got that from her mom.” A quiet
chuckle. “I never said that to your face.”
Kiril snorted, an action which added to my confusion. “My hearing’s better than you had thought it was, Jaret. Than you think it is.” A small pause, and the mood immediately sobered. Kiril’s voice was low. “You’re holding
her down, Son.”
My brain only slightly malfunctioned at the term of affection. Son.
My dad’s tone was instantly guarded. “It’s harder than it looks to keep up with a teenager, Kiril. Especially a
teenaged girl. A lesson which you will be learning soon enough.”
“You never should’ve sent her to a boarding school.”
I smirked at my grandfather’s swift response. Go Kiril!
I could envision the snarl that my father would be attempting to keep off his face. “I’ll be gone before either
of you wake up tomorrow.”
Kiril’s tone was clipped. “Good.”
True to his word, there was no trace of my dad in the morning.
Kiril didn’t offer me an explanation
The first words out of my lips were, “Where’s the orange juice?”
One thing that Kiril and I had in common: we let laying things lie.
TO BE CONTINUED
FORT HIGH FISH
VOLUME 1 ISSUE
TANK
2
Art by John Sletmoen
APRIL
2010