PARC is pleased to announce the shortlisted playwrights for the 2024 Fall Student Monologue Contest! Thank you to everyone who applied.
You can read the shortlisted monologues below. The winning piece will be announced on December 3, 2025. The winning playwright will receive an annual PARC membership and be invited to discuss their piece in a video interview with student intern Maika Branch for our social media.
Stay tuned for future student opportunities and competitions in the new year such as the PARC U-Compete in spring!
Kira Pettigrew is an aspiring author currently studying at Acadia University.
No Good Luck
Salem: Halloween has always been just as unlucky as Friday the 13th claims to be, at least for me. First of all, I was born on Halloween. I was supposed to be named Seraphina, until my parents realized that I had a chance of being a Halloween baby, and if I was, they’d name me Salem. Clearly, I was. That’s where the bad luck began. I mean seriously, I could have been named Seraphina!? I was totally ripped off! [clears throat] Anyways. The first year that things went wrong was when I was thirteen. I had a massive crush on my neighbour, Noah Wells, and in passing by he… may have mentioned he likes cats! So, I dressed up as a cat! We went trick-or-treating, it was amazing. He called my costume (or me!!) cute, we went back to his place, cuddled up with his cat and watched scary movies. I was totally gonna kiss him! [beat] Until I sneezed in his face. That’s how I figured out I’m allergic to cats. Example number two of my horrid luck was when I was fifteen. I went to my first Halloween party with all of my friends, we danced, we drank the punch that was probably spiked, and we partied all night (that is until 11pm when we were forced to go back home for curfew). Anyways! It was getting to the climax of the party where the awkwardness of puberty-driven teens slowly wore off where everyone danced and had fun. I was dancing my heart out, surrounded by disgustingly sweaty bodies, but I didn’t care because I was having a blast. I suddenly realized that maybe I ate a little too much Halloween candy. I ran for my fucking life off the dance floor, pretty sure I knocked a kid over, and I made it to the outer circle and puked my guts out on somebody’s shoes. After recovering from the dizziness and nausea, I looked up at the guy, ready to apologize, when, oh my god, it was my brother’s best friends’ shoes. Pretty much the heartthrob of twelfth grade and I just vomited all over his new and expensive Jordans. Are you following the theme of my bodily fluids embarrassing me in front of cute guys? The last soul-crushing example of my no-good-luck on Halloween came was when I was eighteen. I took advantage of my ability to drink and went out to a bar with my friends who were all eighteen and happy I could finally go with them. By this age, I wasn’t too fond of big crowds, but I wanted to let loose and have fun. Everyone was in costume, I could barely recognize anyone at this point (the drinks didn’t help either), but I was loosened up and dancing with my friends off in a corner. At some point, a guy came over and danced with me, held onto my hips and all that, he was tall and showing off his muscles, but in one of those ghostface masks. I didn’t mind, he was a good dancer and seemed pretty attractive, given the fact that I couldn’t see his face. He leaned down, spoke in this rough, sexy voice “You’re beautiful. Are you beautiful on the inside too?” [black out, the thump of a body and a bloodcurdling scream heard from offstage, Salem speaks up in the darkness.] And then I died.
Thunder Defayette (she/he) is an emerging theatre artist currently in her third year at Dalhousie University in Kjipuktuk, Mi’kma’ki.
Sweater Boys
MARY: For as long as I can remember, I’ve attracted a certain type of guy. The kind who brag about being different, better than the rest, sweater-boys with “tragic backstories” that were never that tragic. I don’t know what they see in me. I don’t even like guys.
John was this one’s name… typical. He was stalking me for at least a month before he introduced himself. I guess he wanted to know stuff about me before we met so he could pretend to like the same stuff? He told me about my interests, my likes and dislikes, as if they were his too. He even said our dogs had the same name. It was all wrong, of course, and besides, I don’t even like guys. I tried to tell him. What was I supposed to do?
Then two months passed. The leaves burst from the trees with violent passion, and they were red and orange and burning yellow… It got dark so quick those nights. Then John was in my house. I could tell because he smashed his way through the front door. He made such an awful racket and I felt sorry for the next-door neighbors who had to hear. I wasn’t scared, though, not me. I’ve been around sweater-boys like that long enough to know what they’re like.
They act all tough and macho, pretend they’re better than other guys because they’re intellectuals, but they’re really just pathetic. John wasn’t going to hurt me, and besides, I’m definitely stronger than he was.
You’d think he’d at least have had the decency to continue the aggression past the front door, but no. He drifted into my house, wafted inside like he was a houseguest and not an unwelcome trespasser. The crisp November air blew past his silhouette and towards my room, and it was colder and more noticeable than whatever he was doing.
He was pleading, no, he was whimpering. He found me in my room. He told me my interests. He moaned and he gasped and he explained to me my likes and dislikes, he was on his knees, fighting to keep enough composure to free my dog’s name from his lips. He looked like a dog. I said to him, fine, and, come with me, and I took him to the garden in my backyard. We dug a pit together, and when it was good and deep I told him to get in. He didn’t hesitate.
I said goodbye to him that night, and I don’t think he knew what was going on, but his sweater was stained with grass and mud and I really couldn’t bring myself to look at him for a second longer to explain. I buried him there, under leaves and earth and onion bulbs, I put a clothespin over my nose and tried in vain not to breathe in the stink.
Men smell so fucking gross.
Bailey Nash is currently in her fourth year of studies at Dalhousie University.
Goodbye Charlie
You’re wrong! I can’t go home, and it’s not a sob story like you assume. No one hurt me, no one kicked me out. I had a great childhood. With a big yard. And this massive tree, dead center. And every autumn, I would watch the leaves change colours and fall. Dead.
You know, the first time I ever raked leaves was with Charlie. He was young, we both were, but he was still growing into his body, all clumsy-like. My mom told me this was a ‘big kid’ job and sent us outdoors. At the time, seeing the million dead leaves, I was a soldier. With my weapon of choice, a plastic blue rake. This was the biggest battle I had ever faced, and Charlie was my brother-in-arms. Except he wasn’t very good at it. For every pile I struggled to make, Charlie would run right through it, chasing birds or butterflies, tripping over his own two feet. And obviously, I was like, “Charlie! Knock it off!” Taking my mission seriously. He halted, tilted his head, and looked at me with those beautiful, dumb eyes as if he were saying, “Who me?” All innocent. So, obviously, I threw the rake aside to chase him. Then I collected leaves by hand, ’cause let’s be honest, I had no clue how to use that fucking rake, and we both jumped into massive piles. When Mom finally realized how long it had been, it was dark out, and the yard was worse than when we started. I was shivering so badly, convinced she would be mad at me. Cause I failed. But Mom bundled us up in a blanket, and I was allowed to have ten whole marshmallows with my hot chocolate. I spent the night with Charlie by my side, wagging his tail wildly as I pet him. He was the best dog in the world, my Charlie.
But now, he’s gone. I’m freezing, and he’s not there to warm me. I know it’s stupid. He died of old age, after a long and happy life. And I barely saw him anymore. I live in another city and only go home for Christmas, but how can I ever go back? I can’t walk through that door and not hear his little paws scratch the wooden floor as he scrambles to his feet to grab the nearest toy. He won’t come to greet me at the door, tail wagging like a helicopter blade, with his eager eyes and–
He lapped me. We grew up together, but I blinked, and now he’s an old man. I mean, he was. Was an old… all grown up. How did he grow up so fast? He was just a puppy. A baby. I’m supposed to be grown up and deal with this like an adult, but I don’t feel like an adult yet! I mean, Jesus, I don’t even know where I should buy a rake, let alone where you’re supposed to throw out all the leaves. I don’t even know how to do anything. I can’t go home, I can’t. I’m not ready to say goodbye.