Something Is Rotten in the State of California

The contest was born out of a group of ideologically disconnected English professors who could agree on one thing and one thing only: their students were incapable of writing a decent paragraph. They were engaged in a philosophical war, fueled by the recently enacted directive from the Chancellor’s Office to eliminate all remedial English courses. This resulted in two distinct camps at Midline Community College: those who fervently believed students should be denied access until they could draft a basic essay, and those who felt it their divine mandate to instill love of reading and writing to all who entered their classrooms.

This dichotomy caused overwrought tenured professors to fantasize about early retirement while their younger, idealistic colleagues spent hours in brainstorming sessions, strategizing workarounds against the new mandate. Tempers flared and decisions remained unmade, consensus seeming unattainable.

Somewhere out of discord emerged an inspired idea to create a writing contest, a Hail Mary with the hope of rousing students to author works of greater consequence than social media comments. The dean of the English department embraced the idea, seeing it as an opportunity for her faculty to bond against a common enemy: the death of the written word. The college president, easily swayed to appear as innovative as possible, saw this as pure genius to highlight the impact his distinguished faculty could have on the lives of students.

President Suarez enlisted the resources of his overstaffed Public Relations department to inform their local community of his noble way of providing opportunity for the disadvantaged. He found $5000 in the budget to offer for each of the quarterly contests, confident this would incite the best and the brightest into literary action.

The contest launched, producing a disheartening lack of evidence of writing talent within their student ranks. The college quickly made the decision to open the contest to the entire state’s community college system, promoting it as a way of “showcasing the collective creative brilliance of the diverse student population across our exemplary community college system.”

Much fanfare ensued, leading to an avalanche of cliched, derivative or otherwise abysmal entries. Even the most cynical English faculty were surprised by the number of AI generated entries, further contributing to their belief that society had ceased wanting to think for itself.

There had been a mere two entries that showed any promise, but further vetting revealed the authors hadn’t attended a community college for even a single day. The contest chairs reluctantly denied their entries, momentarily considering allowing them just so they could claim the contest wasn’t a complete failure.

President Suarez was growing impatient, casting blame on the English faculty’s inability to produce writers with even the slightest indication of talent. He threatened to scrap the entire project, which would have been a crushing blow to the emergent optimism of the English department. They had begun to see this contest as their way of proving their jobs still had worth in a world that places ever-shrinking value on original thought.

***

They met at Monty’s Tavern, purposefully several miles away from Midline Community College’s established post-work watering hole. Their intent was clandestine, not yet fully revealed by the instigator of this meeting, Gordon Witherspoon. The mere fact that these five members of the English department were meeting at all was a minor miracle, each having tried at least once to get one of the other members fired at some point. It was sheer stubbornness and pride that this group had come together to determine how they would save the writing contest. And in return, they fervently hoped, their careers.

Gordon was the most senior faculty at the college. He embodied the stereotype of those who can, do; those who can’t, teach. Gordon had plowed through endless semesters of teaching students whose sole reason for suffering through his classes was to earn transfer credits. He tolerated this soul-crushing existence by holding on to the hope that his novel would one day get published. He submitted manuscript after manuscript, year after year, never once receiving a favorable reply.

Several of his colleagues had been published, which filled Gordon with disgust and envy. In truth, he was impressed with their work but would rather teach the alphabet to kindergarteners than offer any sort of praise to his junior colleagues.

The fact that these other colleagues had been published was the very reason Gordon invited them to this meeting. He needed them on board with his plan to collectively author entries that could win a contest, while still seeming as if college students had written them. If the students couldn’t write, their teachers would.

“So, hear me out. This may seem duplicitous, but if the writing we submit wins fair and square, what’s the harm?”

“How can it be fair and square if you’re one of the judges?” Susie Montgomery asked, not trying to hide her disdain.

“That’s the beauty of it! We’re all going to create pen names, fake social media accounts, the whole deal. That way, the other judges and I won’t know who submitted what. I’ll make sure I’m the one who does the final vetting of the contestants.” Gordon was shining with purpose.

“You can’t be serious. There’s no way this is going to work,” Eli Lopez countered.

“Of course it will! You know all President Suarez cares about is optics. She’s still catching shit for putting Ellison on paid leave for doing inappropriate squats in class. I mean, why the hell does a math teacher need to do squats in short shorts to explain physics?”

“Gross. Oh yeah, there was also Cindy Pendleton—remember when she got arrested for being an escort and had to appear before the Board? And didn’t that one adjunct faculty post threats against the student government president?” Celia Torres chimed in.

“I’m pretty sure what we’re doing isn’t a threat to the government,” Gordon countered without a trace of irony. “Seriously, no one will give it a second thought if the writing is good, just not too good.”

“It does sound kind of fun, fooling the powers that be,” Eli conceded.

“I would enjoy writing in a different genre,” Matt Jensen offered.

“Great! The key is to keep this to ourselves—you can’t tell ANYONE. You know how things have a way of getting out. Am I clear?” Gordon made eye contact with each of the members.

“Totally. We will operate as a Secret Pseudo-Neophyte Society,” Susie said with a grin.

Gordon rolled his eyes and wondered why everyone had to come up with a name for every little thing. He was annoyed he hadn’t thought of it first.

***

The Secret Pseudo-Neophyte Society was prolific, producing story after story under a multitude of pen names. The judging went exactly as hoped, with each of the Society penned stories easily chosen by the other impartial judges.

The president initially wanted an awards ceremony to showcase the brilliant writers the community college system had nurtured—what better PR is there? Gordon convinced him that these writers were introverts, not wanting public exposure to influence or stunt their creativity. The biographies of the winners were vague and included avatars instead of photographs. Gordon made sure that every few contests included winners from Midline (of course under a pen name to avoid cross-checking in the college’s enrollment system) to keep President Suarez’s ego fed.

The prize money was transferred into a secret account, one that would be used to fund professional development. Or at least it started that way, until this newfound allegiance revealed that each member shared a strong interest in gambling.

The contest was a tremendous success, temporarily restoring the morale of the English department.

***

Many months later, Gordon sat alone in his office, feet propped atop his oversized desk. He purposefully chose such a large desk to highlight the power dynamic to the unlucky students who would come to regret their decision to attend his office hours.

Gordon was about ready to leave for the day when he saw the email notification. He read the email, becoming aware with each word that he had been expecting something like this all along.

From: Eric Cunnigham <ecunningham@midlinecollegenews.edu>

Sent: Tuesday, April 28, 2025 1:27:19 AM

To: Professor Witherspoon< pwitherspoon@midlinecommunitycollege.edu>

Subject: Possible Plagiarism in the Mustangs Writing Contest

Dear Professor Witherspoon,

First of all, congrats on the success of the Mustangs Writing Contest! It’s so awesome that you’re showcasing and rewarding original fiction across so many genres. I’m glad our college is getting this well-deserved recognition.

I want to check with you first before I run my story. I was doing a deep dive on the latest contest winner, “It Takes One to Know One” by Kit Coleman. I know you’re confirming stories aren’t AI generated, but are you also checking that they’re not plagiarizing existing work? I ask because I found this exact story on a super old blog, like from the 2000’s, written by some dude named J.D. Sulinger (super original, ha ha). It was easy to find so I can’t believe you all didn’t come across it as well.

And, the weird thing is, his bio pic is almost exactly like your faculty page (blurry picture of you in thinker’s pose, in front of a bookcase).

I don’t know, something was feeling sketch about this, so I looked at the last two contest winners and the social media accounts they listed on their bios have been disabled. Who gets rid of a social media account after they win a big contest?

I thought I should also give you a courtesy heads up that I contacted the accounting department, to see if I could verify the identities of the prize winners. They were only able to tell me that all the prize money had gone to an accountholder named “Neophyte.” Why would it go to the same account for each contest? We both know that all money coming from the college must go directly to the payee.

I think you and I both know why.

Oh, and there must be some sort of malfunction with your contest. I’ve entered every time and haven’t even gotten acknowledgment of a single entry. I know for a fact my writing is far superior to any of the winners the “judges” selected, so something is smelling a little rotten in the state of Denmark...or California, as it were.

I might be willing to hold off publishing my story if you could check to ensure that my entries were received. Just for the sake of equity and fairness, of course.

I anxiously await your reply, Professor Witherspoon.

In truth,

Eric Cunningham

Gordon reread the email, his revulsion deepening with each word. This smug little shit had somehow dug up a long-forgotten blog he had published years ago. Gordon was painfully aware that he hadn’t written anything nearly as good since then.

Even worse than the discovery of the blog was the fact that the email had come from the nepo baby editor of the school newspaper, only granted the position because his mommy, head of the Journalism department, had appointed him. Gordon had a long-standing feud with her, believing she allowed her writers to take liberties with the truth while also tolerating subpar writing.

Of course, Gordon had received every single one of the little brat’s entries to the contest. Never in his lifetime would he provide confirmation that this punk did in fact have writing talent. In fact, Eric was one of the best writers he had encountered in his career. Gordon had kept the entries hidden from the other judges, fearing they would have chosen Eric as the winner. Likely even over the stories written by the other members of their little society.

Gordon didn’t think he could live with confirmation that this kid’s writing was better than his own.

But he couldn’t ignore the possibility that not awarding a prize to Eric could mean the end of the Secret Pseudo-Neophyte Society. That surely would be a damaging blow to the English department’s tenuously restored passion for teaching. They were thrilled by the fact that the contest had gained the respect of not just their president but the chancellor of the entire community college system.

Perhaps the greatest boost to morale for the Society members came from the online gambling endeavors that were funded by the prize money. Gordon felt a rush of pride when he saw Louise Simmons in a new Mercedes yesterday, finally replacing her rusty Honda. It was rumored that Eli Lopez had just bought his girlfriend a 3-carat engagement ring, replacing the half carat ring he had been holding onto for a year. Neither of these upgrades would have been possible without the Secret Pseudo-Neophyte Society.

Gordon was well aware that using earmarked funds for gambling was cause for dismissal. He was starting to wonder if their little enterprise was still worth the risk.

This current conundrum could have been entirely avoided if Gordon’s ego hadn’t, once again, driven his behavior. This same ego was now telling him there was no way in hell he could let this kid win HIS contest. Nope, not now, not ever.

Gordon knew what he had to do: he would apologize to Eric, tail between his legs, for somehow missing his entries. As a show of good faith, he would add every single one of Eric’s stories to the next contest, nearly ensuring Eric a win.

And then, Gordon would finally author a story worthy of his illusory talent. He would show the world that he wasn't just a bitter, disillusioned English professor, hiding behind the dreams of his students. He had to write the story to end all stories, the one that would finally quell his miserable obsession to prove himself against writers half his age. That little punk Eric finally had some competition.

Gordon sighed as he waited for the words to come. And he waited some more. The hours turned into days, the days into weeks. Eventually, he deluded himself into thinking he didn’t need to win the contest after all.

Gordon would remain the hero of his story, if only to himself.