Tag: fiction
It’s a Wonderful Night
by The Cowl Editor on December 7, 2019
Christmas
by Erin Venuti ’20
Her last Christmas season here.
The first one was exciting. Although they’d had an entire Thanksgiving break to get ready, it seemed that the campus had transformed itself overnight. Each day, Kate discovered something new—another Christmas tree, more lights, the cheesy decorations in the dining hall. She and her roommate Ashley had made sure to decorate their dorm room as well, so as to feel more at home. One day during the weeks leading up to Christmas break, the two girls made the trek to the Dollar Tree that sat just off campus, where they filled a shopping basket to the brim with garland, stockings, and window gels. They each also picked out a stuffed reindeer. Kate named her’s Gerald.
She was sitting in Alumni when the text came through: all classes canceled due to snow.
There were few times when you could tell exactly what everyone on campus was thinking. The minutes following a snow day announcement fell into this category. In the same breath, the entirety of Alumni gasped in excitement and frantically began chattering about all of the classes they would be missing the next day. Soon, the exodus of students started, no doubt off to begin their impromptu “Friday” night as soon as possible.
Kate had been in Slavin for so long that she’d not even noticed it was snowing. Hell, she didn’t even know it was supposed to snow. She was too busy trying to ward off the imminent finals-induced panic attack.
Her phone started ringing—it was Ashley.
“Hey,” Kate said, her voice cracking from lack of use.
“Where are you? I haven’t seen you in days.” It sounded like she was accusing Kate of committing a crime.
“We had breakfast together this morning.”
“Yeah, but that wasn’t really you. That was Morning Kate.”
Kate rolled her eyes, even though Ashley couldn’t actually see her through the phone. “Did you have a question?”
“No, I have a request.”
“The answer is no, I’m not doing your laundry again.”
“Shut up,” Ashley said, in a suddenly less-serious tone. “I need you to come to the library.”
“Why?”
Ashley started laughing. Kate heard a muffled voice on the other end. She couldn’t tell who it belonged to.
“Don’t worry about it,” she managed to get out. “Just come.”
Kate sighed. “Fine.”
By the time she was off the phone, Alumni had nearly emptied out. There were only a few tables that were still occupied, small groups of friends whose snow-day-eve plan clearly included killing time in Slavin.
Kate quickly packed her things and zipped up all of her layers—in the earlier winter days of her college career, she’d taken care to make sure her hat, scarf, and gloves all matched, but nowadays she just threw on whatever she happened to touch first that morning. Frankly, at this point, her sweater could be inside out and she probably wouldn’t have noticed.
College campuses were strange. Depending on the time of day, they could be completely different places. Just that afternoon, when Kate’s last class ended and she set up shop in Slavin, PC had been bustling with students—walking to class, talking with friends, complaining loudly to parents over the phone. Absolutely kinetic. But then the sun had gone down and a snow day had been declared, and now everything was distant. There was still that same energy, but now, it was all potential. Every student seemed to be waiting for Something Great to happen.
Careful not to slip on the wet tile, Kate ascended the stairs and emerged from the pit of Lower Slavin into the openness of the Slavin Atrium.
Her heart leapt.
It’s snowing.
She smiled, and pure joy trickled from her heart all the way to her fingers and toes.
It’s snowing.
It’s snowing! It’s actually snowing!
It wasn’t like she’d never seen snow before. She’d grown up in New England, after all. But this snow was, somehow, a different kind of snow.
Or perhaps it was the same kind of snow she’d always seen, and that it had only felt different because it had been so long since she’d last felt that overwhelming sense of childlike happiness.
Slavin Lawn and the stretch of campus that led up to the library was blanketed in powder. It was still coming down in a mist that faded the brick buildings, transforming the view into one of those old photographs of PC way-back-when that they have lining the walls on the second floor of Harkins.
It’s snowing!
Kate pulled her hat down over her ears, shoved her hands deep in her pockets, and stepped outside. She could hear the scraping of plows against the pavement off in the distance, a sound that, strangely enough, she found peaceful, having spent most of her school days living on a main road. As she walked to the library, she gave no thought to the goofy grin that was plastered across her face.
She was nearing her destination when—
FWUMP!
A small object collided with her backpack. She turned in the direction from which the object came, just in time to be hit square in the chest by a snowball.
Ashley and two of their other friends, John and Avery, jumped out from behind a few trees. Kate’s roommate was cackling uncontrollably, so much so that she had no time to prepare for the snowball that Kate sent flying towards her in response.
It was on.
Soon, the four seniors were engaged in the battle of the century. They were merciless, even after Avery accidentally hit a passing group of friars, who decided that they would have some fun too.
Finally, the winter warriors called a truce, and Kate and her friends agreed to return to Kate and Ashley’s apartment for a screening of It’s a Wonderful Life (a snow day tradition of theirs) and hot chocolate with extra chocolate.
Half an hour later, Kate was cocooned in a blanket and sipping chocolate on her couch in Davis, while her friends were joking around and attempting to toss marshmallows in each other’s mouths. Only now did she realize that she hadn’t given any thought to her finals since leaving Slavin earlier that night. It was as if the snow had covered her anxiety as well—of course, come morning, the snow would begin to melt, and her stress would begin to peek through again. But, for now, all was well.
Kate gave Gerald a squeeze. After three years, his tummy had gone flat and his antlers had begun to droop, but he was still going strong.
If a one-dollar stuffed reindeer could make it this far, Kate thought to herself, So can I.
And so ended an absolutely, incredibly, surprisingly, wonderful night.
How I Found Your Christmas Gift
by The Cowl Editor on December 7, 2019
Christmas
by Sarah McLaughlin ’23
I found myself shopping for you in Barnes and Noble, of all places.
I never realized a bookstore could be such a shit show, but hey, I guess it’s Christmas Eve.
I’ve never been much of a reader; you know that. You’re the smart one. I just pay the bills.
Kidding. But, seriously, a PhD in English? Did you really think that was going to get you anywhere besides submerged inside a volcano of debt?
Anyway, I procrastinated all my shopping until the last minute, as usual. I was so sure that you were already done by now, especially with gifts for me, and I was freaking out. So I did what all respectable adults do in stressful situations and called my mom.
She advised me to make a list of your favorite things, stuff that you use all the time. First thing I thought of was a spatula. She almost hung up on me. Next I said sweaters, and she said you have enough of those. Also, I think that’s probably what she’s buying us, and she didn’t want me to steal her idea.
But that got me thinking—what don’t you have enough of? Money, sure, but I don’t think you’d appreciate me wrapping up my Christmas bonus and sticking it under the tree. Socks, maybe, because of those damn dryer goblins, but who wants to find socks in their stocking? And then it hit me like the one you whacked me with yesterday when I interrupted your reading. Books.
You’re always complaining that you don’t have enough good stuff to read—which is insane, considering you spent eight years learning about the pinnacles of literature—so I figured that would be a safe choice. All I’d have to do is check your shelf to make sure whatever I bought wasn’t already on it. Maybe chat with a librarian, too. But there was bound to be something on the New Releases table that would pique your interest.
Cookbooks caught my eye first—all shiny and glittery with big pictures of food on the covers—but I know I’d get more use out of one than you ever would. Sure, you like to cook, but more in an experimental sort of way. That’s why I’m in charge of dinner.
Then I saw some romance-y looking novels, and I was so, so tempted to snag the sauciest one I could find, because it’d surely get a good laugh out of us both when you unwrapped it, but I wanted to be a little more mature than that. Joke gifts were better saved for birthdays or Valentine’s Day.
It was after deciding this when I turned and spotted it. The reflectiveness of the gold- edged pages caught my eye; then I noticed the dark red leather binding and the shiny etching on the cover.
Okay, so the New Releases table wasn’t the place to look. Maybe I should’ve anticipated that you wouldn’t fancy anything loud and gaudy with enticing pictures on the front. But the children’s shelf was the last one I expected to end up perusing.
It was perfect, though. I knew it instantly. Standing there, gaping like a complete idiot, I reached out to grab it. I would’ve picked it up, too, had another hand not landed on it at the exact same time.
“Oh! Sorry.” Normally, I would’ve jumped away and carried on, but I couldn’t let go. I gripped the spine like I’d glued my fingers to it.
Great, I thought. I’m about to get myself into one of those Black Friday-type brawls. I’m gonna be on the evening news. I’m—
“Hey.”
I finally had the sense to turn and glance at whose hand it was.
I blinked twice. “What are you doing here?”
You smiled. “Shopping. And you?”
“Likewise.”
You nodded toward the book we both still held. “Looks like we had the same idea.” Then you looked back at me with a grin. “You know me too well.”
I bit my lip. “I’m sorry. I saved buying your gift for the last minute. I didn’t know what to get. But then I saw this, and I remembered how you said it was your—”
“Favorite book growing up,” you finished. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
You shake your head. “No need to be. Hey, look, I saved your gift for the last minute, too.”
“Really? You were going to buy this for me?”
You gesture with your free hand. “Well, yeah. You said you never read it, so…” I smiled. “Let’s buy it, then. For both of us.”
You nodded. “I like that idea. Less work.”
“It’s a win-win situation, really.”
So, together, we picked it up.
Snowed in for the Holidays
by The Cowl Editor on December 7, 2019
Christmas
by Sam Pellman ’20
“I’ll never make it home!” she sighed. The schedule just changed from a two-hour delay to now four. The snow was falling hard at home. She looked at the TVs where the runways in NY were covered in white. “We haven’t had a white Christmas in years! Why does the weather decide to act up today of all days?” Michelle had been at the airport for five hours now. All she wanted to do was get home for Christmas. She had been away from home for four weeks now, traveling around Cambodia with her Habitat for Humanity group of friends. She had been building homes for families for the holidays and nothing made her feel better. Knowing that these families have a place to stay and be together for the holidays was the only gift she needed this year. Plus, maybe making it home. In all twenty-two years of her life, she never once missed Christmas at home. But things weren’t looking good. At this point she’d definitely be spending Christmas Eve at the tiny airport in Cambodia. She looked around. Everyone else looked sad as well. Some of them were her friends from the group. She was friendly with them and understood they felt the same way as her. An idea came into her head. She whispered to the people sitting around the gate, telling them to run into the cheesy airport stores and pick out a gift. If they were all going to be stuck in here for Christmas Eve, they might as well celebrate together. Soon everyone was on board with the idea and everyone ran into the stores quickly trying to find a decent gift for an anonymous someone. When everyone was ready, Michelle came up with a system to swap gifts with the person across from you. There were giggles and laughs as some people gave candy and chips as gifts, where others could only find neck pillows, iPhone chargers and coffee mugs. But it didn’t matter what everyone got as gifts, what mattered is no one looked sad anymore. Everyone was so distracted that they forgot they were in an airport on Christmas Eve. The hours passed by quicker, and soon it was time to board the plane. Michelle and everyone else would make it home for Christmas Day. And they all had a great Christmas Eve story to tell their loved ones when they arrived!
Fireside
by Sarah D Kirchner on November 8, 2019
Portfolio
by Daniel Carrero ’23
Camp was at its end, and they celebrated. Bright smiling teeth illuminated what the absent moonlight couldn’t. Music played and people danced, arms and hips mirrored in swinging shadows. The pitch blackness of the woods was kept at bay by the fire, resting at the edges of the camp, waiting for the light to die.
She sat amongst the campers roasting a marshmallow, making sure not to burn it. Warmth seeped through her blanket and into her bones. “I feel like a marshmallow,” she giggled.
“Georgia, you making a s’more?” Pepe asked, with his hands behind his back. “’Cause it looks like you’re gonna need s’more chocolate!” he said, pulling out a box of Hershey’s.
She laughed, rolling her eyes, “You’re mad dumb, kid.”
They sat together in the midst of the celebration. Hesitant to get close to Georgia, Pepe placed his hand at her side. Georgia felt like the crowd’s eyes were on them. She sat stiff, resisting the urge to grab Pepe’s hand, afraid to glance in his direction. Their silence was an island surrounded by the music and chatter.
Soon only ashes and charcoal were left. The campers, save for Pepe and Georgia, took their energy to the cabin, keeping the music and laughter alive from the night into the morning. Hand in hand, they held each other at a distance as they headed down to the lake. Pepe knew the trail well enough to get through in the black night.
There was no light to tame the dark. It swallowed the sound of rustling leaves and snapping twigs beneath trotting feet. Creatures hidden in inky corners and crevices watched the couple walk, ready to run at the sight of sudden movement. Drooping branches loomed overhead like sleeping limbs, wiggling in the wind to regain sensation.
On the dock their feet hung above the lake. Without light, the murky water offered little reflection. Hands interlocked, the silhouettes of their arms were like ropes suspended in the dark.
Chirping crickets found their place amongst the silence. The lonely evening nudged them closer together, but Pepe was hesitant to respond. Georgia breathed deeply, inhaling the cool, calm air. She brought herself thigh to thigh with Pepe.
“Pepe?” Georgia asked.
“Yeah?”
“I’m cold.”
“Um, ok,” Pepe replied, putting his jacket across her shoulders.
“Put your arm around me instead.”
“Is this ok?” he asked.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered.
Leaning into his chest, she felt her heart rushing. Her head rested on his shoulder and she scanned the lines of his face. His attention stayed on the water.
“Pepe, look at me,” she said.
He faced her. She pressed her lips to his. The gentle sound of their kiss rippled through the still air.
The End of the Jetty
by Sarah D Kirchner on November 8, 2019
Portfolio
by Sarah McLaughlin ’23
When I step onto the final rock, I turn back to look at the coastline.
The harbor is lined with white boats, nestled like piano keys against the rocky shore. From there, the water extends—past the horizon, beyond anything I can see.
I’ve never reached the end before, but my little brother talked me into it this morning as I started the car and backed out of the driveway. Now he’s sitting there, to the left of my sneakers, stretching his legs out as he watches a seagull play with a crab shell, dragging it up out of the ocean and onto the rock.
“Careful,” I say. “Don’t fall in.”
He doesn’t raise his head. “At least we can say we made it all the way to the end.”
Since the first time I saw it, I’ve wondered if I’d ever walk the whole thing. It’s got to be only a mile at most, but as you get further out, the gaps get bigger, the rocks’ surfaces less smooth. Along the edge, there’s a brown border—dark, glistening, a reminder of the high tide, the encroachment of the sea that could swallow you whole if you take one wrong step. As I walked, I trained my eyes to my feet.
Now, I raise a hand to my forehead to shield my eyes from the sun. It bends, I realize—the whole jetty. It puts me at the perfect angle to see the start from the end, uninterrupted by the in- between.
And it doesn’t look quite as long anymore. And the rocks are just as wide here—now the first ones look narrow.
“Bet I could swim back,” he says.
I glance down at him. He’s looking at the shore, now, too. “No way.”
“I think I could make it to that little fishing boat, at least,” he replies, pointing. “And then I’d call for help.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“I’m serious. I could do it.” Then he looks at me over his shoulder. “You ready to go?”
“Almost,” I reply. “Give me a minute.”
There’s a reason people don’t swim out here, out to this point—it would be meaningless. It’s a place that holds no significance outside of the fact that it’s the end of something. It’s the last note in a song. The final step in a running race. The period at the end of a sentence. It’s having tunnel vision as you step from rock to precarious rock, so focused on the destination that you don’t know what to do when you reach it except turn around and look back.
The shore doesn’t look as far away as I thought it would. It doesn’t look as far away as this rock did, shrouded in mist, separated from where I stood by an empty, dark expanse.
Averting my gaze, I tap my brother on the shoulder with the tip of my shoe. “Let’s walk back.”
On the Eve of Samhain
by The Cowl Editor on November 1, 2019
Halloween
by Clara Howard ’20
As the sun set on the eve of the harvest season, the countryside of Valenlea was awash in yellows, oranges, and reds. Nature brushed fingers of brilliant light against the tops of trees and blew winking kisses of gold to the terracotta tiles of roofs. The royal castle, settled high in the hills above the capital and built of glass and sandstone, burned resplendently in the golden sun. Standing tall, the ancient home of the monarchs cast a proud gaze over the spread of life beneath it. And as the sun smoldered red against the horizon line, the indigo of dusk crept ever closer. Behind it all, gathering in the east and sliding smoothly together, clouds covered the moon. The forces at work had no wishes for any witnesses tonight, after all.
***
Hidden far beneath the earth, in a dirty, moldy prison cell, a bearded man sat. His head rested against a wall of dirt and stone and his eyes were closed. Only the slight rise and fall of his chest gave any indication that he still lived. His hands were curled into fists, cut off by the heavy, black iron manacles locked around his wrists. A second pair wrapped around his ankles, connected to a short chain embedded in the wall. One of the newer guards ventured the observation that it almost seemed as if the man were waiting for something. Distracted by the subsequent teasing, none of the guards saw the prisoner’s answering smile.
***
Above the prison, mere moments after the last dregs of the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, an unholy storm broke over the kingdom of Valenlea. Rain lashed at windows and sides of buildings, shattering glass and tearing at brick walls. Water roared down the streets as small streams transformed into furious, churning rivers. Screaming gales of wind brought trees and precious crops crashing to the ground. People panicked as they sought higher ground, only to be swept away by the merciless water. Nature swallowed the cries of Valenlea’s dying as she threw electrifying bolts of lightning to illuminate the sky and rolled great crashes of thunder to shake the ground. Tomorrow, her calm blue skies would shock the humans who feared her, but tonight, she would let her anger rage at them.
Beneath the ground, the prisoner listened as chaos erupted. Water gushed forth from the sewer tunnels, flooding the dungeon cells at a deadly pace. The guards withdrew, clambering up to the surface and abandoning their charges to their certain, watery ends. The man opened bloodshot eyes to watch as black water flooded into his cell. A figure rose from the shallows, cloaked in oily black and wielding a steaming, curved blade. The prisoner scrambled up to stand before the figure. And as the scythe tipped slowly forward, the edges sharp enough to split souls, the man’s bloody, cracked lips twisted into a smile, revealing rotten, chipped teeth and a black tongue. He spread his fingers wide and held his arms out to the reaper, palms facing up. Death had fulfilled his end of the bargain and had come to claim his reward.
***
High in the hills of Valenlea, the queen watched the devastation that tore through her lands with blurred vision. Tears streamed down her face as her heart found a new home in the back of her throat and sobs caught behind her ribs with each flash of lightning that revealed new destruction. The heavy steps of the king echoed into their bedchamber, and she turned her face into his broad chest, the familiar scent of her husband wrapping gently around her breaking heart. He rubbed a spot between her shoulder blades with
jerky movements and pressed his lips to the top of her head. She sniffled, wanting to inhale his comforting scent again, but froze. A small kernel of her magic pulsed in the abyss of her stomach, and she sniffed again. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
“Alec?” she whispered, her voice muffled against the king’s chest. The queen tried to ease herself out of his embrace, pushing gently against his torso to widen the distance between them. Instead of letting her go, his arms tightened against her back. He crushed her to him, squeezing her until black spots started poking holes in her vision, and it became hard to breathe. Above them, thunder boomed as lightning lit the room. In its echo, she could hear her son screaming, and her head suddenly cleared.
Her magic bloomed, winding its way through her veins and nerves, lending her strength as she struggled against her husband’s embrace. Another cry from her son distracted her, and in that moment, the king reached up and laced his fingers through her hair, wrapping the tendrils around his palm and pulling her head back. As their eyes met, the terror that had been slowly building in her throat erupted from her mouth in a scream. The queen looked at her husband but did not recognize the man who stared back at her with eyes of a monster from the ancient myths. Cloudy grey surrounded onyx irises circling white pupils. His face had gone as pale as the snow covering the peaks of the northern mountains, and his golden hair had turned as black as tar. A cruel smile twisted his mouth as he reached his other hand up to cover her face. With her last breath, the queen released her magic, the ensuing whoosh of air masking the sound of her neck snapping. As the monster and the queen fell, the storm ceased.
***
The king awoke to golden sunlight flooding his bedchamber. A headache hammered at his skull. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking in confusion. Why was he on the floor? He sat up, a nauseous churning in his stomach as he took in the details of the devastated land outside his windows. A glint of gold in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned, and the headache exploded behind his eyes as he beheld his wife, wide-eyed and still, lying on the ground beside him.
His heart pounding and hand shaking, he reached for her. A sob wrenched from his throat when he felt the ice of her skin, the sound aggravating the hammering behind his brow. “No…Mae…” Tears streamed down his face as the sun beat on his back. He closed his eyes, resting his face against her frozen collarbone.
The king struggled to breathe.
The queen was dead.
And he remembered all of it.
No Place Like Home
by The Cowl Editor on November 1, 2019
Halloween
by Gabriela Baron ’20
“Do you remember what I told you?” Mom asked nervously.
“Get lost and walk alone?” I said, mocking her.
“Ella!”
“Mom, it’s going to be ok. Stop worrying. I’ll be with all my friends.”
It was my first time trick-or-treating without my parents. I was in sixth grade, and my mom and dad were finally letting me be independent! I mean I was 12, so I was practically an adult. I was going out with a big group of boys and girls in my grade (that was the only way they were allowing me to go). Christina was a witch, David was Harry Potter, Kevin and Adam were superheroes, Emily, Katie, Natalia, and Rebecca were characters from Winnie the Pooh, and I was Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.
“And don’t let this little stinker get loose either,” my mom said, petting my teacup Yorkie, Snickers. Snickers was dressed up as Toto, Dorothy’s little pup.
After another ten minutes of reminding me of the rules, my parents set me free. It was 9 p.m. The sky was gloomy, and the moon glared down at us. We made a few stops around the best houses in the neighborhood, and my pillowcase grew heavy with full-size candy bars.
“So, who wants to go to this place next?” David said, pointing to an old, wooden house in the distance. Its paint was stripped, and it looked naked without any shutters. “Definitely not one of the girls,” Kevin joked.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I called back.
“It means you girls will chicken out. There’s a creepy man who lives there all by himself. Rumor has it he hasn’t left the house in years,” Kevin replied.
“I also heard that anyone who goes to his house on Halloween never makes it back home,” David added.
“Well, I’ll prove you all wrong. Haven’t you guys watched Home Alone before? The scary next-door neighbor who was always shoveling snow ended up being a sweet, misunderstood father. I bet you this guy’s not bad and these stories are just mean lies,” I argued.
“I don’t think that’s good enough of a reas—” Katie started.
“Oh, please. It’s not a big deal. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
After walking with Snickers for what seemed like longer than I had predicted, we finally reached the front steps. I could feel my heart pounding. You can do this, Ella, you’re basically a teenager now, I told myself. I knocked on the door three times. No answer. I knocked another three times. I thought I heard a sound from within but figured it was all in my head. “C’mon, Snickers, there’s no ‘creepy man’ inside,” I said, walking back down the steps. I heard a door creak open.
“Hello?” said a shadowy figure in a low, raspy voice.
I looked back. “Oh, uh, trick or treat!” I said awkwardly. Snickers’s tail was between his legs.
“Are you here all alone, Dorothy?” The man peered his head out the door. He had beady eyes. I don’t think he ever blinked.
“No, my friends are close by!”
“Well, all the kids already took the candy that was out on the stoop. But I have an extra candy apple inside.” He smiled, showing yellow crooked teeth. He was looking down at my ruby red heels.
“Oh, that’s ok!” I laughed nervously.
“No, really, come on,” he said, motioning me in.
“I’m fine. Thanks anyways!” I turned back around.
“No, I think you should come inside!” He grabbed one of my braids. I struggled to break free. My friends were too far away to hear me shout. His other hand clutched my forearm, pulling me in. My ruby heels made a screeching noise, scraping against the floor. Snickers growled and lunged forward.
“Ow, what the!” The man screamed, letting go of my hair. His ankle was bleeding from the bite.
“C’mon, Toto, we’re going home!” I shouted, yanking on the leash.
Suddenly, spending Halloween with my parents didn’t seem so bad after all.
Arctic Summer
by The Cowl Editor on November 1, 2019
Halloween
by Jay Willett ’20
Picks dug into the transparent ice, deep enough for the burly man to gain a footing with his spiked heel. Void of upper body strength, Daniel heaved hard, chuckling at his own physique and exhaustion. It had been Danielle who convinced him. Think about it, she said, the Inner Arctic Circle: uncharted land that not even the great explorers like Amundsen could find. Daniel had reached the edge of the mid cliff, the horizon a mixed magenta and green.
“Wait up!” Danielle’s laugh echoed up the frozen wall. Daniel sighed; his breath misted and fell in front of him. It had been his sister’s idea, yet she couldn’t keep up. Two days of climbing, sliding, camping, and crouching from the occasional polar bear. Daniel had preferred to watch them gallop on National Geographic, safely in the comfort of his own flat in Nova Scotia. That was his problem, Danielle always lectured; Daniel was too comfortable. He was unemployed and she had been traveling across Siberia working in the Peace Corps.
“Cliff bar?” she waved it towards Daniel’s beard.
“I guess there wouldn’t be a time more appropriate than now, eh?”
“I guess not,” Danielle grinned. “Sun’s going down, wanna call it?”
Daniel smirked, and bit into the granola.
“Why? You tired?”
“As if!” Danielle nudged him. “You’re the one panting like a dog; I could hear it all the way back there!”
Daniel nodded. This was his punishment for neglecting the gym for years.
“Better than home though, right? I’m glad we could do this,” Danielle said.
Dusk began to blanket the sun. Night was rare and sparse at the beginning of the summer season. There would only be an hour or two of darkness. Danielle pulled out a flare, Daniel reached for it.
“No, not that—here, use this.” He handed her a firestarter, coated in sap. He always wondered how she got this far in her career despite being so clueless. Sparks feebly flickered in and out with the heavy northern winds. Danielle frowned and spun the lighter in frustration. She had always been determined, Daniel thought. Without her, he probably never would have left the house.
“UrGh – gzzzzzzt” a growl hissed from the ice ceiling on the cliffside. Danielle recoiled, Daniel grabbed his flashlight.
“What was that?!” Danielle whispered. Daniel held his hand up. Cracking sounds boomed on the lake below, audible even from hundreds of feet up. There was no light now; Daniel’s beam was all that was left. He angled it towards the sky.
Ripping sublevels of concrete ice, an arm glimmered through the reflection of the natural mirror. Daniel could see the metal drilling underneath
the surface.
The Path Home
by The Cowl Editor on November 1, 2019
Halloween
by Erin Venuti ’20
Amidst a string of warm autumn days in October, there was a cold, dry night the week before Halloween. And it was on this cold, dry night that she noticed the footprints.
She was walking back from the library after a late-night study session for her biology midterm. It was two in the morning and one of the security guards had kicked her out of the library just as it was closing. As a freshman, she might have protested or relocated to Slavin for an all-nighter, but she was a senior now, and she was tired, so she was reluctantly making the trek back to Davis to go to bed.
She might not have noticed the footprints if she hadn’t been listening to the “Release Radar” playlist on Spotify, because the first time she looked down at the ground was when she pulled her phone out of her pocket to skip the new Taylor Swift song she’d already heard a hundred times that day.
Now, she saw them—too small to belong to a college student. Too wet to make sense. And because the owner of these feet had been barefoot, she could tell that they were missing the second toe on their right foot, giving the illusion that their left foot was slightly larger.
Perhaps it was a Halloween prank or perhaps they’d always been there or perhaps she was only imagining them, but because they were so distinctive, and it was two in the morning, and she was alone, and they were going in the direction of her apartment, she couldn’t help but notice that her heartbeat was beginning to speed up.
She looked up and around. No one. Harry Styles continued to sing through her AirPods and she breathed in the sweet, thick detergent drifting from the cracked window of the McDermott laundry room.
She kept walking, not daring to step on the footprints.
Crunch.
Her heart crashed in her chest and her hands flew to her headphones, yanking them from her ears.
She froze.
Crunch.
She looked down at the footprints again, confirming they actually existed. They did.
Crunch.
She fought the pressure that was threatening to close her airways. What air made it to her lungs seemed to be lacking oxygen.
The noise was getting closer. Slowly, she dared to look to the right of the walkway, where the sound originated, searching the shadowed leaves at the edge of the grass.
A squirrel.
Crisis averted.
And to her relief, the footprints had changed course and were no longer headed in the direction of her apartment but had rather taken a sharp left turn between McDermott and Aquinas and into the quad. She put the AirPods back in her ears, pressed play, and continued on past St. Dom’s, Feinstein, St. Joe’s, Guzman, and at the bottom of the stairs took a left on that walkway that used to be Huxley. From here, she could see the window of her bedroom, her roommate’s fairy lights fading off and on.
It occurred to her, here, that she’d not seen another person since she left the library, which, even at two in the morning, was unusual at PC.
She noticed, too, that she was about to cross paths with the footprints again. Except this time, they were coming from the opposite direction. They were heading toward her.
And they were getting closer.
The Dark Arts
by The Cowl Editor on November 1, 2019
Halloween
by Sam Ward ’21
The wood burned as the fire cracked and the occultist conjured unsettling images. Clowns and killers brandishing knives. “Dahbay!” The syllables erupting from the bottom of his throat; he threw sand on the fire. “Mugrodan!” His hand fell flat on the ancient tome. “Kasarah!” The fire exploded outward, sending him and the heavy book flying to the ground.
The occultist was nothing without his enchantress. How could he wreak havoc on humanity without her power? He only knew the one necromancy spell and judging from his blistered face and the decomposing body at the altar, he had done it wrong.
He stood up in the catacomb, the dying fire lighting only enough for him to see a fraction of the ornate design on the limestone sarcophagus. The limp body was far from the psychotic clown he had hoped to transform it into.
That’s when the walls began to shake and the fire burned a toxic purple.
“Who dares disturb me!” The voice oozed from the altar into the soul of the young necromancer. The ancient script on the catacomb walls lit up and the sarcophagus began to convulse and the feminine voice shrieked violently.
The occultist turned to go for the exit, running instead into a wall. A left turn yielded a similar result as the shrieking continued. Panicked, he fell to his knees and began searching through the sand for a match, a lighter, or a dropdoor: an exit or something that would illuminate such. He could feel the oxygen subside as if the room was shrinking.
The disquieted voice offered no reassurance to the dying man.
“The altar is closed for necromancy on Sundays,” she spit before the walls collapsed inward, finalizing his burial in the ancient catacombs.