For Better, For Worse

by Elizabeth McGinn on February 11, 2021


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heart in an envelope
photo courtesy of pexels.com

by Ellie Forster ’24

Margaret never liked when people made a fuss about her anniversary. Harold had been gone for almost a year now, and they hadn’t been a festive pair when he was alive. To act like that day was any different now just seemed silly. All she wanted was for Tim and June to come over, to have lunch like they always did, and be alone. It was just a Wednesday. That was all. Old friends would call, and she’d let the phone ring. Didn’t need reminders of a day fifty years ago, a day that no one else even understood. Only the ones who stood up on that altar could understand. Them, and them alone. 

June and Tim rang the bell at 1:15, same as they always did. They let themselves in, and Tim went to the bathroom. June stood in the kitchen, the light surrounding her, touching her figure so gently it was like it was afraid of her. She wore a blue button-down tucked into an old pair of jeans. Her hair curled softly, and she had a yellow bandana holding it back. She turned to see Margaret standing there, a dish towel in her hand. The old friends smiled at each other, and when Margaret walked over, June took her hand and squeezed it.  

The two couples had been best friends for 60 years, since middle school. They were each other’s best men and maids of honor. They bought houses on the same street, and the houses were one another’s. So much of the furniture in Margaret’s house had been picked out by Tim, they had just given him his own room to decorate. That parlor was the best room in the house, everyone agreed. Neither couple had ever had children, and nothing else could’ve possibly severed the bond they shared. They were inseparable. 

June and Margaret sat in the parlor when Tim came in. He sank into a chair and smiled. 

“I miss him.” 

The women smiled and each took one of Tim’s hands.  

“So do I,” said Margaret quietly. 

Tim’s eyes shone, and his chest rose. “He’d be so embarrassed of me right now. He’d hate this.” 

“Well, he’d definitely have some remark, I’m sure we can all agree about that,” June said with a laugh. Margaret looked at her, and her face flushed still, the same it had when they were kids. That laugh shattered her chest into a million pieces and offered her heart up, praying it would be taken. 

Tim wiped his face and smiled. “That he would.” Then the old man took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the table.  

The women looked at it and saw the letter M written in elegant script.  

Margaret looked up at Tim. “No.” 

“It’s from him.” 

Her heart sank. “For me?” 

“Yes.” 

She sighed. She lightly took the letter and a knife from the table. She took out the small piece of paper and saw seven words in a familiar, soft handwriting. 

Margaret, 

I can’t thank you enough. 

   H 

Margaret felt the tears come, and she felt her friends come to her side, Tim’s hand on her back as he, too, wept, and June pulling Margaret’s head to her chest, running her hands through her hair. 

Fifty years earlier, four people stood on an altar as Harold and Margaret held hands. They said the words the priest told them to, and they were pronounced man and wife. Behind her new husband, Margaret saw Tim smile, and Harold turned to him as the crowd cheered. The men met eyes and grinned. Harold grabbed Tim’s hand and turned to face his wife. A hand squeezed Margaret’s shoulder from behind her, and Margaret turned to see June standing there, the sun intimidated by her glow. She hugged her, and as June laughed, she felt her chest burst. As they left one another’s embrace, Margaret kept June’s hand in hers. Then the happy couple shared a kiss.  

 

When Least Expected

by Elizabeth McGinn on February 11, 2021


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cartoon figure holding an umbrella to protect himself from heart shaped rain
photo courtesy of pexels.com

by Taylor Rogers ’24

Cupid’s thin, heart-tipped arrow strikes my skin at approximately 10:00 a.m., attacking me while I was suffering through yet another pointless Zoom call. The sneaky little bastard hit me when I was most vulnerable, as he knew I could not defeat him in my lethargic state. Lazily, my blood falls from the wound on my forearm, staining the precious notes and drawings scattered in my notebook. Thankfully, my fellow classmates and professor are unable to see my distress, nor hear my animalistic cries as I pull the stubborn god’s arrow out of my flesh. Once the arrow is laid on my desk, I find myself drawn to the object, its white coloration one that reassures me that yes, Cupid was the one who shot me, not my roommate who’s been reading The Hunger Games a little too much lately. This sacred arrow has an intricate scrawl lazily written along its base, the Latin impossible for me to understand. Thankfully, Google Translate exists, and I type the words into the search engine, eyes widening at the words’ meaning. “Love will come when unexpected?” I ask myself, too stubborn to attempt to comprehend this confusing meaning. 

The words from the “divine” creature stick in my mind all day, causing me to ponder whether my potential soulmate is currently watching me while I walk around my campus, the snow below my feet making this task difficult to accomplish. His words plague my inner thoughts as I do my laundry, and I can’t help but glance around the empty laundry room, hoping my lover is here at the same time I am. I peek around every corner whenever I walk, hoping to see a pair of eyes that will make butterflies burst from my stomach or a smile that forces gibberish to fall from my chapped lips. As I diligently stare at the words on the paper, I can’t help but glance up from my notes, wondering if my soulmate opted to study in the nearly desolate library as well.  

“What’d you do to your arm?” my roommate inquires as I enter our shared space, their indie music blasting from the tiny blue speaker neither of us could fathom living without. 

“Got shot by Cupid’s arrow,” I bluntly respond, my words causing them to laugh. I take a seat in my precious blue bean bag, then gesture for my roommate to talk, since they most definitely have something to say about my “joke.” 

“What are you, stuck in your Roman mythology phase again? That stuff doesn’t happen in real life,” the stubborn human elects to respond, and I decide not to press him on the whole “soulmate” concept that’s been playing tennis with the other thoughts invading my mind all day. 

“Neither do zombie apocalypses, yet that doesn’t stop you from keeping an apocalypse survival kit stashed under your bed,” I point out, causing them to go silent. They select a new song to listen to. Eerily calm music streams through our plant-filled habitation while we begin slowly reviewing homework for the Zoom classes (for which we happen to pay $60,000). Silence fills the room, then my easily distracted roommate points to something on my desk. “Someone left that for you, by the way.” Curious, I rise from the beanbag, and walk over to the desk, immediately grabbing the small note. The complex calligraphy on this scroll is instantly recognizable, and I grin at the words written. Is this what Cupid meant by unexpected? “I’m gonna go talk to the person who left this for me, I’ll be back,” I assure my roommate, who seems to be too focused on the newest episode of The Walking Dead to pay attention to me. In seconds, I have made it to the elevator, ready to meet the person I’m destined to love forever.  

“Shoot, maybe I just got Rick-rolled,” I realize as the song “Never Gonna Give You Up” blasts from somebody’s dorm room above me. Despite what the note claimed, not a single person is under the biggest oak tree on campus, nor are there any hints of a person in a giant, red hoodie. “I knew this was too good to be true. I guess I was expecting the person to actually show up, which went against what my arrow said anyways,” I say aloud, not caring if anybody spots me talking to myself. As I stand outside, Mother Nature playfully opens the clouds above me, small droplets of snow beginning to litter the ground around me. Cursing, I decide that today isn’t the day I want to get hypothermia, and I begin the brief walk back to my dorm. Each step feels wrong, as if Cupid’s bow is using me as an arrow, slowly drawing me back to the tree where nobody awaits me. However, I resist the tree’s strange pull, my efforts to get away causing me to bump into somebody.  

I expect the heavens to halt, for the snow to suddenly stop falling, but nothing happens. Why did I think the person I collided into was going to be my soulmate? “Sorry,” I curtly say to the person, making eye contact with them briefly. Nothing happens, and I quickly look away from the person, who nods before continuing on their journey. I do the same, still wondering when Cupid’s going to magically work his magic and show me who I’m meant to be with for the rest of my life. The snow around me continues to fall, seeping into my blue, oversized hoodie that adorns my small frame. Yet, for the first time in a while, the cold air doesn’t wrap around me like a blanket. Instead, the snow seems to warm my cool figure, and I glance up at the calm, gray sky above me. As if giving me a thumbs-up of approval, the clouds stop sending snow at me for a second, then continues its merciless storm yet again. 

Instead of returning to my dorm, I decide to wander around my campus, the divine above granting me warmth as I rediscover the school I fell in love with the first time I toured it. Snow artfully falls onto the buildings, dancing to its own music as I begin to do a dance of my own, skipping on the sidewalk and admiring the “gloomy” day nature has presented to me. The blue fades to black as my day goes away, and the rainbow of LED lights streaming from dorm windows begins to light my way down the twist and turns of the sidewalk, making me wonder if my soulmate truly is a person. With a smile on my face, I decide to slowly head back to my dorm, not wanting to leave the comforting embrace of the world around me. Snow joins me on the walk down the path, and I know this won’t be the last time I fall in love with Earth’s wonderful gifts. I find myself cured of the soulmate dilemma that threatened to destroy me earlier.

 

 

 

 

 

Found

by The Cowl Editor on September 17, 2020


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Man with horns on head covering face with hands
Graphic design by Elizabeth McGinn ’21

by Kate Ward ’23

As he took in the city view from the 20th floor of his apartment building, the lights flickered and dimmed. Methodically, as if there was someone going through a circuit breaker, each building went from a warm glow to a cold darkness. This wasn’t something new to Thomas. In fact, it happened almost every Friday night, and things stayed like this until early Monday morning. It gave the other species their own time to come out and do their business. 

The society Thomas lived in was split between humans and an animalistic human hybrid called Gorcs. Well, at least that’s what everyone called them because they were failed lab experiments. The Gorcs would occasionally have extra limbs, wings, horns, various skin tones on one body, scales—anything was possible. The odd-looking were forced to stay inside until the lights were dimmed. It was not because of humans’ distaste for the other species, but because of how sensitive the Gorcs’ bodies were to sunlight.

Thomas watched from his window as the streets began to crawl, seething with Gorcs who were slowly emerging to make deals and slip into stores that had no vendors. He turned away and walked to his kitchen, preparing a late meal. Humans were allowed to go out at night but no one wanted to disturb the fragile peace that had been achieved after the 10 Years’ War that had erupted in the olden days between the Gorcs and the humans. Tensions were still high among some factions of Gorcs and humans, especially those who were poorer.

He enjoyed knowing that there was no governing body. It had dissolved after the war since the humans did nothing but kill their own and hoard money, jewels, and property. The two species had settled their own rules directly after the war at a meeting that had been declared by the two captains of each side. The rules are as follows: no light after 7 p.m. on Fridays, no fighting in the streets, and no attempt to rise to power. After the 10 Years’ War, people had decided that these rules were reasonable. Anyone who disobeyed would be swiftly reprimanded at a town hall. It was a dodgy society, and Thomas knew he could never be found out for fear of being thrown out or verbally destroyed.

As he ate, he watched the foot traffic move in the inky darkness. It was satisfying to watch the Gorcs move about freely. He knew what it was like to be an outcast, knew what it was like to have to live inside day in and day out. Finishing up, he piled his dishes in the sink and shuffled to the bathroom, staring at the mirror. The splotches had begun to pop up more and more, this time on his neck, face, and shoulders, all spots that would be more and more difficult to hide under clothing. If he was found out to be a Gorc playing a human, it might be bad enough that another war would begin. Taking off his shirt and trousers, more and more patches of greasy, oil-slick skin appeared. No one could find out. No one. He had kept it this way since he was a child, his parents helping and teaching him how to hide, how to act normally, how to navigate society. Thomas sighed and nodded, beginning to brush his teeth. As he spit a wad of toothpaste in the sink, he heard the distinct click of a camera shutter. 

He had been found.

 

The Strand

by Connor Zimmerman on March 6, 2020


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An astronaut with a digital clock reading "0:05" reflected in his helmet
Photos courtesy of flickr.com and pexels.com.

by Jay Willett ’20

When they sent me here, they didn’t expect me to survive. The atmosphere is too heavy to breathe, the water’s too thick to drink, the vegetation too poisonous. A mist of emerald encompasses the air between the canyon and the ship—I had to wait for the cloud to pass before venturing back outside. Vibrations reverberated throughout, clanging the metal against the limestone it was leaning on. I was surprised that the S.S. Oblivia held up upon crash landing. It did nothing but scuff the red and blue paint of the NASA logo. Gas was sizzling by, shrouding my view through the only circular window in the ship. The dashboard had an analog counter on it, which detailed how many hours the ship’s oxygen would last. The number had dropped into the single digits last night. 

Pushing the red labeled “Emergency Exit” open led me into the ravine. Today I would make the annoying trek across to the lake. Most of the filtering technology was damaged in the crash, but Memphis worked his magic and scraped together a couple of working canisters. He explained to the group that the natural water here is drinkable if we remove the Arsenic and diluted the density of the liquid. I suggested we just boil it instead. Everyone snickered at that. This would probably be my last run for water. Even if it’s just me, the fresh water could only last maybe a day or two, but at least I wouldn’t die of dehydration. Although I’m not sure suffocation is much better. It’s times like this where I missed Memphis. He’d come up with a solution.

Strapping the empty canister on my back, I watched my step as I descended from where the Oblivia was lodged. My suit had about 34% battery left, enough to make a round trip without any breaks. I tapped the wrist nav, and the screen blipped on, illuminating my tired face with the orange arrows, pointing towards my destination. I’ve made this trip plenty of times, but the terrain kept changing, so it was hard to remember by memory. Yesterday there was a river of acid that stretched at the basin, but a landslide filled the gap overnight. Now the acid had pooled into mini lakes that I had to jump over. It wasn’t difficult considering the gravity was lighter than Earth’s—something like -4m/s^2? Memphis always loved to explain this stuff to us, but none of it really stuck with me. A habitual creature at heart, as long as I was told what to do, I’d do it. 

Finally, at the end of the canyon was the entrance to the forest, the Shimogaki forest. Trevor named it after Sakura’s last name after she fell tripping over a root. Her helmet cracked and the gas flooded in. It was tough to watch. Lifting my legs to dodge the overgrowth was the least of my problems though—the clearing ahead would be my final obstacle before arriving at the lake. We called it the den, where our one and only predator lived. In terms of food, we had managed to ration the freeze-dried packets we found on Oblivia. It wasn’t tasty, but it’s not like there was any other life here to hunt, or vegetables to pick, let alone eat. The only thing that dwelled her besides us— 

“HHHHERRRRRRR,” it growled from across the clearing. The flash of the scales blinded me; I activated the UV shade on my helmet. Humans couldn’t look at it, not with the naked eye at least. One claw scratch from it was all it would take; the radiation emitting from under its skin was enough to do it in an instant. We called it a predator, but honestly, I don’t think it eats meat, or anything for that matter. It doesn’t move unless provoked or threatened of its territory, and it just lays in the sun soaking up the rays. Approximately 20 feet long and 10 feet tall, the creature loomed over me like I was a pebble in its path. I fired the flare, the one that Memphis invented after it tore apart the others. The projectile flew meters above the lizard’s head. It steamed heat at the familiar object. Instantly the sky grew dark. I switched from UV to night-vision and made a break for it under its legs. All light was sucked in, it wailed in torment as it was robbed of its comfort. I didn’t have a void flare for the way back, though. I’d have to get crafty.

The Lake of Shadows laid in front of me. I named this one. The arsenic tinted the water a foreboding gray. After the Oblivia’s supply ran dry, I thought we were done for, but Memphis was convinced that this muck could be drinkable under the right circumstances. I lowered the canister under the surface, letting the solution leak into the filtering chamber. 

“Still using that thing, huh?” Trevor said from behind me. I turned my head without lifting the cylinder. 

“Oh?” I cooed, “you’re still alive? Thought the gas would’ve done you in by now.” Trevor chuckled, sitting in the shallows and dipping his feet in the poison. He left a couple of days ago, officially putting me on my own. He said he’d rather die out in the wilderness than in a prison. 

“Me too,” he said. I pulled the filled canister up onto the shore, resting it between the two of us. It would take an hour or so for it to finish filtering. We both were staring at the setting sun, distinct from the sun we knew from home with its blue blaze. Trevor tapped the top of his helmet.

“You ever think about it?”

“Hm?” I looked over to him. “think ‘bout what?”

“You know—how it’ll end?” I guess I never thought about the end. I just kind of figured it would happen. I guess dehydration’s out of the picture, but everything else was still on the table. We weren’t expected to live this long. NASA sent us here, us prisoners of five, to test the living elements of the Strand. We weren’t human to them anymore, just monkeys they could send into space. The government called it a “more ethical capital punishment,” but I couldn’t really see how. 

“I don’t know,” I responded, “but this is nice, isn’t it?” I pointed to the sunset; the cerulean beams were refracting off the bleak surface. The green clouds were pierced by the light, like heaven had split apart to let us in. Trevor chuckled again. 

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

 

Fluromance: Finding Love in the Midst of the Flu Outbreak

by Connor Zimmerman on February 14, 2020


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A couple in coughing masks with a pink heart in the background
Photos courtesy of pickpik.com & Graphic Design by Sarah McLaughlin ’23

by Kate Ward ’23

“I got you a present.” His voice was muffled, one hand pressed against the glass, the other behind his back. 

I took off my mask and looked at him intently. “If it’s another mask I’m going to be mad.” I laughed a little. It had been sixteen years since the initial outbreak of the flu and nearly every house on the street had been ordered to put glass around the perimeter of the property. My next-door neighbor Michael and I had become infected at relatively the same time. I caught it first after being hospitalized for a nasty case of the flu. I got out right before Valentine’s Day, and that was when we went on a date. I kissed him, things advanced, and two weeks later he was sick. Let me tell you, fostering romance while sick is an entirely new challenge within itself. I watched through the glass as he took a box out from behind him; it was one of those heart-shaped chocolate boxes. 

“You do know that there’s no way for me to get those, right?” I laughed a little.

“Yes, I do know that, so I’m just going to show them to you.” He chuckled. “No, I’m kidding, I’m going to find a way to give them to you. Here, back up.” 

I took a few steps away from the glass and looked up at where the small air hole was. The air hole was something that the government had decided to put in the ceiling of the glass to make sure we had some way of getting fresh air without spreading the disease. Michael stepped back and then began to run at the glass, jumping and hurling the box through his air hole and into mine. I watched as the chocolate box fell open, pill bottles tumbling out from the inside. 

Gasping as a few clattered onto my head, I whirled to look at him.“Are you kidding me, Michael?”

He was doubled over, laughing loudly as he watched the expression on my face change from shock and horror to anger. 

“What? Come on, I thought it was funny! Why can’t I make jokes about our sickness, huh?” he asked, pressing his hands up to the glass. 

“You think this,” I held up a prescription bottle and flung it at the glass, “is funny?! Do you think this is a proper Valentine’s gift?” I cried. 

“Look inside the bottles,” he said, now more serious.

I shook my head and bent down, picking up one of the orange bottles, unscrewing the cap. Inside there were three tightly rolled pieces of paper. 

“They’re letters,” Michael explained as I went around and collected the rest of the bottles, some already broken open. 

I was quiet for a moment, trying to find the words and the courage to say what I wanted to say. I opened one letter and glanced over it. “This is from our first date.” I picked up another. “And this is from our last.” I looked at him. He nodded and smiled sheepishly. 

“I thought it was a nice idea, I don’t know, maybe it’s stupid,” Michael murmured, his breath fogging up the glass.

“No! No, it isn’t a stupid idea, I mean, at least you got me something. Last Valentine’s Day all I got you was sick with this virus.” I tried to lighten the mood.

Michael chuckled. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The slightly dark and oddly cute sentence caught me off guard. This man was willing to be trapped in a glass cage for the remainder of his life if it meant seeing me each day. 

“I don’t deserve you,” I whispered.

“You’re going to have to speak up; the glass is thick,” he said, pointing to his ears for further clarification.

“I—never mind.” I shook my head. “It was a stupid thought!” Stupid to bring something like that up on a day like today. 

Michael waited patiently, looking at me in case I wanted to say something further. I shook my head again. “I don’t have anything to say, so quit looking at me like that, will you?”

“You know, I was thinking about, like… do you remember back in 2020 when people still used that term ship? I was thinking about our ship name.” He had this stupid yet adorable grin on his face. 

I lifted a brow. “Oh? What might that be?”

He wrung his hands. “I don’t know if I should tell you judging by your reaction to the gift.”

“You can’t just bring it up and not say it!” I cried, pointing at him. 

He put his hands up in surrender, our eyes locking as I watched him try to figure out his next move. “Our ship name isn’t a joining of our names but more like our current… predicament. It’s Fluromance.” Michael grinned. 

I sighed. Flu Romance, of course he would think of something that stupid yet somewhat witty. 

The Last Two

by Connor Zimmerman on February 14, 2020


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by Jay Willett ’20

“Cheers,” she raised her wine glass, “to being single on this lovely Valentine’s Day!” We clinked and took our first sips of the red wine I bought for seven bucks at Shaw’s. She wrinkled her nose and gasped.

“That’s bitter!”

“Wine can’t be bitter.” I grinned.

“Well, it is!”

I nodded my head as I drank, catching her doubtful glance that I was enjoying the beverage. It’s true I was bluffing, and after a couple more, I couldn’t stop myself.

“ACK!” I coughed into my sleeve. She folded her arms in self-proclaimed victory. Laughter echoed from upstairs. Noise of the city filtered through cracks in the drywall. It was muzzled but audible to hear the couples dancing and kissing in the streets. She tugged at the front strands of her hair. I stamped the  heel of my foot on the felt carpet. There was no avoiding it; the aroma of love had breached our walls of singularity. Our safe space for honest discussion and unrelenting cynicism had been invaded by the enamored. They took the stage while we fell silent.

a glass of red wine
Photo courtesy of pixabay.com

“It’s not fair, you know,” she whispered.

“What?”

“I don’t know.” She fiddled with her necklace. “Like, that we are here, and people expect us to be sad and lonely tonight.”

“Hm,” was all I could respond with.

“…But I’m not­—I’m here, drinking with you. And I’m happy!”

“Right.”

“I am—I’m—” Tears rolled down her flushed cheeks. I raised my glass.

“Hey­—cheers.” We clinked for a second time. She laughed as I spat out my wine.

Falling Without Gravity

by Connor Zimmerman on February 14, 2020


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A heartbeat scan that ends in a heart
Photo courtesy of pixabay.com

by Clara Howard ’20

“Hellooo, earth to Marina?”

Marina blinked, the fog of memories and laughter lifting at the voice of the attending on-call and the surrounding sounds of the hospital. “What?”

Dr. Li frowned at her. “Are you okay? That’s the third time you’ve spaced out on me this shift.”

Marina shook her head and shoulders, the way a bird might settle its wings after a long flight. “Sorry, I’m fine. Just have a lot on my mind today.”

“Did you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” she replied, smiling a little tightly. “Well, not right now, at any rate.”

Dr. Li nodded and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter of the nurses’ station. The new position brought his face closer to where Marina’s head was bent over a pile of charts she was supposed to be reviewing. “So, what do you want to talk about, then?” He asked, his voice quieter.

Marina rolled her eyes, a small smile playing with the edges of her mouth. “I don’t really have anything that I want to talk about right now,” she responded, her voice just as low.

“Really, absolutely nothing?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“No special plans for the weekend?”

She shrugged, the smile growing wider with the exchange. “Not really.” She glanced up at him then, struggling not to laugh at the way his eyes sparked with mock outrage.

His eyes widened as he gaped at her. “You wound me, Marina Blair,” he whispered, the mirth in his eyes belying his words.

Marina did a subtle sweep of the space around them before leaning in closer to Dr. Li, making as if she were about to divulge a secret. “Good thing you’re a doctor, then, and can patch yourself up,” she whispered back.

He burst out laughing, clapping a hand over his mouth as his shoulders shook. Marina sat back, her grin turning smug as she watched him. He shook his head and matched her gaze. “So little sympathy for the injured, Nurse Blair?”

“Only when the injured is you, Dr. Li,” she quipped, even daring to shoot him a wink.

“Sounds like someone needs to help you work on those bedside manners.”

“Oh really?” Her dimples came out in full force and she leaned forward again. “And I suppose you’re offering to be that someone?”

His deep brown eyes seemed to smolder with heated promises as he looked at her. “I suppose that I am.”

Her smile turned slow, curling at the corners like a cat in front of a fire. “Then I suppose—”

“Marina, have you seen the chart for the patient in room 207?” Nurse Jenkins interrupted, her nose buried in a bunch of files as she turned the corner and walked up to the nurses’ station. She looked up to see Dr. Li straightening the pile of charts in front of him and Marina searching for a pen. She decided not to comment on the blushes staining their cheeks.

Say It Ain’t So

by Connor Zimmerman on January 30, 2020


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Creatures of old sketched on a stone wall like fairies and dragons
Photos courtesy of needpix.com & pixabay.com

by Clara Howard ’20

His Royal Highness Aidan William Rothschild, Crown Prince of Collarch, was royally pissed. And anyone who could hear or see him walking down the hall knew to remove themselves immediately from his path. His sister, her Royal Highness Princess Brianne Aislinn, winced as she listened to the heavy fall of his booted footsteps against the ancient stone floors. She hiked her skirts up a bit higher as she hurried to keep up with his longer strides. But with Brianne’s eyes fixed on the ground to avoid tripping on the uneven stones, she missed Aidan’s abrupt stop in front of the doors to their parents’ suite of rooms. “Oof,” she exclaimed, her voice muffled by the scratchy wool of her brother’s greatcoat.

“Sorry, Bri,” he said, glancing at her over his shoulder, his face softening a bit.

“No worries,” she replied, scratching at her nose. “But, Liam, it can’t really be that bad, can it?”

Aidan’s brows knotted back together. “You don’t understand what he’s asking me to do.”

“Oh please, it’s the same thing he’ll be asking me to do in a few years, and likely Keira and Torin, too.” Brianne couldn’t quite keep the impatience from her voice.

Her brother shook his head and nodded to the royal guards standing near the doors. One of them bowed his head and pushed open the heavy oak door. A footman on the other side held it open as the royal siblings crossed the threshold.

Their parents’ private sitting room was a large, open space, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a grand fireplace, its hearth sculpted by the one of the early kings of Collarch as a gift for his new bride. As a child, Brianne had loved tracing the dips and ridges of the fearsome creatures and the beautiful faeries carved into the stone while her mother wove stories of magic, warriors, and dragons. Though she and her siblings had grown too old for faerie stories, Brianne could still swear that sometimes she thought she saw the creatures move in the flickering firelight.

In front of the hearth, the fire banked slightly in the afternoon heat, sat Her Royal Majesty Queen Fiona Mairéad, her wild red-orange curls unbound and left to cascade over her shoulders and back. Her eyebrows, a shade slightly darker than her hair, shifted up in question at her two eldest children. “Hello, my loves. What—”

“Mother, he can’t make me do this. You have to get him to change the order,” Aidan interrupted, his voice rippling with barely-restrained fury.

“Ah,” the queen replied, her eyes softening a bit. “Liam,” she began, calling him by the name only his immediate family used, “surely your father explained the situation to you.”

“Of course he did,” Aidan bit back, throwing himself onto the couch beside their grandmother’s empty rocking chair. His gaze lingered on the thin layer of dust that had started to gather on the armrests before he turned back to their mother. When he spoke again, his tone was slightly more measured. “But that doesn’t mean I agree with his reasoning—or even understand it.”

“It’s just a suggestion, Liam. It’s not as though Father has already promised you to her,” Brianne broke in, still surprised that her brother was so angry about the whole thing.

“Yeah, it’s slightly more complicated than that, Brianne, so if you could just keep out of it—”

“I was in that room too, William, and it didn’t sound remotely complicated to me—”

“Probably because you were too busy staring at Father’s new Hand the whole time to pay any attention,” Aidan retorted.

Brianne gasped, her brown eyes widening with outrage. “Get off it! I was not staring!” she tossed back, her ears burning a bright red as her cheeks flushed a rosy pink beneath her freckles.

Aidan smirked, his object won, and leaned into her face. “You were too. In fact, is that 

a spot of drool on your bodice, Bri? Think it’ll come out in the wash?”

The princess snarled at her older brother and reached for something to hit him with or throw at him. As her fingers closed around the seam of a pillow, their mother spoke and the siblings froze. “Brianne Aislinn, if you in any way attempt to inflict bodily damage on your brother, I will instruct Lady Quinn to resume your embroidery lessons post haste.” Brianne growled and opened her hand, dropping the pillow and leaning back against the cushions of her chair. Aidan smirked again, but quickly swallowed it as their mother addressed him next, Fiona’s honey-golden eyes blazing with authority. “Aidan William, your King has given you an order which he and I expect you to follow—as is your duty as Crown Prince.” Aidan caught her stare and held it, and Brianne saw that he was struggling to control an impulsive answer. Slowly, he tilted his chin and bowed his head, submitting to the royal command in their mother’s voice. Fiona sighed, and Brianne watched as their mother shifted closer to Aidan. The queen reached out and grasped Aidan’s hands in her own. “Liam, your father likes this plan as little as you do. But he’s got no choice. A bargain was made, and the King of Nesrea did not follow through with his end. Your father has already been generous enough in granting the Nesreans more time than had been originally agreed.”

“But why must the price of their treachery be my freedom?” Aidan’s voice held a tinge of pleading that Brianne had never heard before. “And what about the Nesrean princess? Are neither of us to have a say in our own futures?”

“You’re forgetting that your sister has a point, too,” the queen replied. “Nothing has been fully promised. And besides, perhaps you’ll suit,” she offered, shrugging a thin shoulder, her fiery curls shifting with the movement. “‘Tis not so dire as you believe, m’love.”

After a long moment, Aidan nodded once, but Brianne caught the flash of resignation in his eyes before he retreated into himself. He squeezed their mother’s hands and stood, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “Perhaps you’re right, Mums.” He turned to Brianne, one hand still gently clasping the queen’s fingers. “I’m sorry, Bri. I won’t tease you about the new Hand…”

“Thank you—”

“…anymore today,” he finished, grinning at the growl that escaped Brianne as he chucked her under the chin. With a final smile to his mother and sister—one that Brianne thought didn’t quite reach his eyes—Aidan left the room, his hands settling deep in his pockets.

“Mother,” Brianne whispered, turning to see the queen’s gaze on the doors through which Aidan had just strode. “Mother, is this all more complicated than a simple marriage contract?”

Fiona looked at her daughter and smiled tightly. “Of course not, love. Aidan merely wishes for more independence. Now, come,” the queen coaxed with a softer smile. “Tell me why you were staring at the King’s Hand this morning.”

Brianne groaned and fell back against the pillows, cursing her brother’s big mouth.

Vacuuming Spiders

by Connor Zimmerman on January 30, 2020


Portfolio


A piano
Photo courtesy of freesvg.org

by Sarah McLaughlin ’23

During his piano lesson, Grayson doesn’t really seem like himself.

I know he’s not particularly talkative, but he’s even more reserved than usual today. He looks at the music with stoic, sad eyes and takes longer than normal to pick up on the new concepts I try to teach him. I’m tempted to ask if everything’s alright, if he’s tired, or if it’s too difficult, but I keeping pushing it off. After he finishes this song, I tell myself. But I don’t.

Eventually, we have only five minutes left, and we’ve barely accomplished anything. I check my phone for the time, wondering if I should just wrap it up early—surely his mother, waiting in her car, wouldn’t mind.

“Alright,” I say. “So, just practice the same two pages for next week, okay?”

He doesn’t respond. He’s staring at the open book, completely still.

“It’s okay,” I say carefully. “I know we didn’t make a lot of progress today, but don’t feel bad. Sometimes music is really hard, and you have to take your time with it. It’s…” I trail off as I notice his eyes welling up. Oh, God, have I made him cry?

“Grayson?” I ask, trying my best to make sure I don’t sound like I’m about to burst into tears. “What’s wrong?”

He sniffs and shakes his head.

I shift in my chair to face him. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. Do you want me to get your mom?”

He shakes his head again, and this time he opens his mouth. “My…” He speaks in the smallest voice I’ve ever heard. “My Gramma. She’s sick. Mommy says she’s going to be okay, but she looks scared.” A tear escapes his eye and rolls down his cheek. “I’m scared.”

 I freeze. Am I supposed to try to comfort him? What do I say? This is a five-year-old kid, who apparently trusts me enough (more than his own mother?) to tell me what’s bothering him. I’ve never been good at helping friends who are in emotional crises or even just feeling little down—I’m the type of person who offers to grab a glass of water or a box of tissues rather than stay in the room and talk to someone. And if it’s a little kid? Forget it.

Tentatively, I reach out, making sure he doesn’t flinch before I lay my hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” I say. “Your Gramma will be okay. And you should talk to your mom. Even if she’s scared, too, it’s better to both be scared together.”

He sniffles again, but at least he turns to look at me. “What do you mean?”

I shrug. “Well, think about it like this. What’s something that you think is really scary?” 

He pauses for a moment. “Spiders. Only the really big ones, though.”

I nod. “Okay. Spiders. I don’t like spiders, either. So if there was a really big spider right there—” I point next to his hand on the piano, and he quickly pulls it away. “—it’d be really scary. But if you show me the spider, I can tell you to keep watching it while I go get the vacuum.”

He laughs a little. “That’s what me and Mommy do. She vacuums the spiders. Sometimes she even screams.”

I smile. “Yeah? So, you see, when both of you are together, it’s less scary, right?” 

He nods. “Right.”

I squeeze his shoulder gently. “So you should talk to her. Tell her what’s making you scared, and even if she is scared, too, she can still help you.” 

He frowns. “But I don’t want her to vacuum Gramma.”

I can’t help laughing. “Don’t worry. She won’t. But she’ll give you a big hug, and you can give her a big hug, too, and then you’ll both be less scared. I promise.”

He looks at me with big, round eyes—bigger than scary spiders. “You promise?” 

I nod. “Yeah. I promise.”

It Wasn’t a Dream

by Connor Zimmerman on January 16, 2020


Portfolio


 

A silhouette of a man and a woman sitting awkwardly on a couch
Photos courtesy of unsplash.com & graphic design by Connor Zimmerman ’20

The following piece includes a discussion of sexual assault and the subsquent mental and emotional impact it may have on survivors. Discretion is advised. 

by Connor Zimmerman ’20

I stand there in the corner absorbing everything around me. The sounds, the music, and the vibrations crawl their way underneath my skin. The sweat streams down my face, as the heat dances around the room. The smell of drinks envelops me in my corner of the basement. Why did I agree to come here? I look over and see two of my friends high-fiving as they chug their drinks. Some of my other friends are yelling at each other across the pong table. I hope to God that I have some plastic bags in my car.

 As I look away from my friends, I see a girl dance her way through the crowd towards the keg. She moves and twirls through the packs of people till she is almost in front of the line. As she fills up her drink, she looks around the room. She looks over at me, and she smiles. I try to lift my head over the crowd to get a better look. Can’t see anything with the one string of Christmas lights in this basement. 

Suddenly, she is moving through the crowds towards me. I guess I’m not invisible in this corner. She comes up to me and screams over the loud music, “So what’s your deal? You’ve been here forever and haven’t gotten a drink yet.” 

It’s really annoying when everyone wants to know why you aren’t drinking. “I’m just hanging around keeping an eye on my friends.” I point them out, and she takes a look as one of them is vomiting in the corner. 

Laughing, “Well I’m sure the car ride home will be fun.” 

“I’m sure I won’t forget it. What about you?”

“I came over for another drink…and to talk to the only guy with a little mystery in this place.”

“Huh, mystery? Should I take that as a compliment or am I an experiment for your psych 101 class?”

“Only one way to find out. Let’s go upstairs into my office.” She grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd with her. She leads me up some flights of stairs, and I try to get a better look at her as we climb up the stairs. Her long dark brunette hair bouncing up and down her back makes it hard to get a good look. We come to a living room where the music’s dim echoes are somehow still alive, and the sudden lights blind me. She pushes me, and I fall backwards onto a couch as she disappears. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. I should just leave. Before I can get up from the couch, she comes back into the room with a chair and puts it in front of the couch. 

“So, Doc what’s the plan here? Do you always do business where you live?”

 Without a response she dives in, “So how often do you choose to be the sober one among your friends?”

Drawn aback, I pause. “I’m not entirely sure. No one wants to be the driver, but I’m willing to take the hit.”

Leaning closer to me, “So, Mister Mystery, are you a push-over or are you afraid?” 

Her words are playful, but her eyes are harsh. With a smile I ask, “Can’t I just be a good friend?” 

She smirks and stares at me, “A good friend wouldn’t be the sober one every time, and I have a feeling you’re the usual sober one. A friend is comfortable around those he calls ‘friends,’ and isn’t afraid to speak up for himself.” 

I nod my head in frustration. “Well maybe I just don’t like drinking.”

She shakes her head and gets up from her chair. Taking a seat on the couch next to me, she says, “The way you look at everyone says otherwise. While you stand in the corner, your eyes have a flash of either annoyance or anger…How am I doing?” Inching away from her on the couch, I remain silent. Do I tell her the truth? Maybe it will just end whatever this is faster.  

With a torturous smile she asks, “A one-sided conversation is no fun, maybe we should do something else?” I should leave. I stand up and say, “I think I should go check in on my friends…they are probably fighting about whether their elbows were over the table during pong.”  

She looks at me funny. “Maybe I will make this a little clearer.” She stands up and leans closer to me. Her perfume mixed with a smell of cheap beer draws me in. Her body begins to touch mine, as she reaches her arms around me. As her hand touches my neck, my body feels like it is about to go limp. Her lips approach mine, and I lean forward to kiss her. 

Suddenly the faint music begins to grow and grow and grow until they are screaming. Images begin to flash in my head: a girl smiling at me from across the basement, her hand giving me a drink, the sun striking my face in the morning as I see my clothes by the side of the bed. I can’t breathe. I begin to pull away, as I gasp for air. I run towards the bathroom and slam the door behind me. 

I dry heave into the toilet, as tears begin to well up in my eyes. I hear a soft knock on the door. “Hey, is everything okay?” Trying to calm myself down, I move from the toilet to the sink. Splashing some water on my face, I look in the mirror and instead of my reflection I see a bed with messed up sheets and a man sitting with his head in his arms.  

The door begins to carefully open, as she peeks her head in the bathroom. “Hey, whenever you feel okay, I have a glass of water out here if you need it.” I nod my head, still staring in the mirror. She nods back and closes the door. Breathe in, breathe out. 

***

I come out of the bathroom and sit back down on the couch next to her. Her hand reaches out with the glass of water, but I just shake my head. 

“So, was my breath that bad?” She asks with a smile. 

Staring at the wall ahead, “No, it wasn’t that.”

“First time?”

“Nope.”

“Gay?”

Looking at her, “Is this some sort of damn game to you?”

She looks down at the floor, “No. I’m sorry…I…I guess I just had a little too much to drink and….”

Silence sits in the room between us on the couch. I let it linger so that I’m not the only one that is uncomfortable in the room. Shaking my head, I say, “It happened probably close to a year ago. It was a night just like tonight: loud music, a dirty basement, cold and cheap beer. I guess it was fine until…it wasn’t. I started talking to this girl and when my cup was empty, she said she would grab me a drink. It must have happened around then, because I don’t remember much else…just flashes. It felt like a dream. It still doesn’t feel real sometimes.” 

She looks at me and then back down to the floor. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I’ve known people that have been…I guess I just didn’t really know them…you know.”

“Yeah I know.”

“Christa.”

“What?”

“That’s my name.”

“Jason.”

“I’m okay taking things slow. I know a great Chinese place in the next town over. I mean if you are free next weekend?” She asks looking at me. 

I look over at her and smile, “Yeah I would like that.” She looks different in the light…she looks real.