Tag: fiction
Tincture
by The Cowl Editor on May 2, 2019
Portfolio
by Julia Zygiel ’19
My head is buried in my folded arms as my heart hammers in my chest. My nose presses uncomfortably into the desk, but this is the only tried and true method for hiding the cloud of piss yellow panic that’s trying to suffocate me. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up, praying simultaneously that it’s able to contain the whole thing and that my professor will drone on past his allotted lecture time per usual so I can get myself under control. But the art of coming down from an attack is sometimes in moving on and forgetting about it, and right now all I can do is think about people wincing at the cloud that now surrounds my head, thinking I’m some freak because not everything I feel is picture perfect. Even worse, I imagine them full of pity and trying to help. Asking what’s wrong.
As the end of the class approaches I can feel the cloud condensed in the small space of my hoodie, pressing uncomfortably against the back of my neck and wrapping around, its misty tendrils wriggling into my ears, making everything sound muted. I raise my head ever so slightly, trying to focus on the professor’s lips and the faraway sound of his voice so that I can tell if he dismisses class. Instead the cloud comes to hang over my eyes, making everything appear jaundiced. It begins to expand into the air in front of my face, leaking out of the small crevice I have created for it, and panic propels my face back down against the desk with lightning speed.
By the time that the cloud must be staining my hoodie, hair, and skin bright yellow, everyone starts packing their bags and leaving the class while I’m stuck hunkered over my desk. I could try to listen to music, but the movement of getting my earphones out of my backpack could draw the attention of the class. Plus, if I move my arms the cloud will escape into the air, which will definitely draw the attention of the class. On top of this, I’m sure that the thought train of my worrying has only made the yellow even more saturated and noticeable. I can feel a hiccup of fear caught in my throat, threatening to choke me, when a cool palm on my shoulder interrupts the storm of my emotion.
“Hey.” Alexandra’s voice matches the sensation of her palm, cool and disembodied. Her voice washes over and blanks me out and wrests me from my emotions, a welcome change after the past half hour of class. The blankness struggles with my panic for a moment, and then I feel the grip on my heart loosen and dissolve. Gently, she pulls me up from my position on the desk.
“How was class?” Her tone is teasing. Neither of us can count the amount of times she’s had to save me from my own embarrassing emotion in public places, and she does not often let me forget it. But the familiar crease in her brow is there. She’s worried about me. This has happened too many times this week.
“It was fine.” I want to bristle at the teasing, but I can’t. Alexandra neutralizes me, she saves me from panic attacks, but she brings me down from euphoria as well. I don’t mind the light pink of joy or the warm red of excitement. It makes me feel like the people I envy on the streets, who live in their color of emotion without shame. Who feel normal and proudly display it. Alexandra, who creates beautiful color no matter her mood, cannot understand my envy.
“I’m sorry,” she sighs, sounding forlorn. Being that I don’t display much emotion when she’s around, she’s become surprisingly adept at reading my mind. Around her head and shoulders, a cloud of midnight blue forms, gaining a few sideways glances.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, and I mean it. Though I know I’ll be upset about it tonight and maybe tomorrow, she eliminates emotion from the equation for the time being. It isn’t logical to be upset; it will only result in stress and heart ache, so I’m not. Slowly we walk to our dorms and slowly the midnight blue grows lighter and lighter and disappears from her headspace. Briefly, I wonder if I could do something to neutralize some of her emotions in turn, but I’m not sure I should wish that upon her.
***
“I want to feel more.”
We are sitting outside of the library, on the marble ledge that looks out onto the gardens. When I say this, Alexandra pulls a face, her brow creasing once more in worry and confusion.
“Feel more?” she laughs. “I thought you felt too much.”
I swing my foot back and forth out of lack of preoccupation, considering my words.
“I don’t like feeling numb, being neutral.”
She scowls for a minute, then her expression clears. “I thought I was helping you.” Her tone is measured, the way it gets when she’s trying to stop a cloud from forming. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
“Then listen. Please.”
Her lips work to protest, but she produces no sound. She shifts a hand, as if she wants to reach for the reassuring hand on the shoulder but is too afraid. Instead, she begins to sway, touching her shoulder to mine periodically.
“Okay. Tell me.”
For the first time in a long time I feel complete in a color of emotion, with her allowing me to slowly glean the hues of my feeling as she rhythmically sets me to swaying.
“I don’t want you to help me anymore,” I burst out, a bloom of dark purple clouding around me. It stains her shoulder when she bumps against me, but she doesn’t quell it. I don’t feel the blank washing over. She doesn’t say anything, and I can feel from the way she is gripping the marble ledge that this is as far as her active listening skills have stretched in a long time.
“I want to feel everything I feel, and I want to revel in it, and wallow in it, and I don’t want to forget what it feels like to feel good, but I don’t want to forget what it feels like to feel bad either. I want to feel like a human again, with all the highs and lows. I need help, but not a cure-all. You get better by going through, not around.”
“But you asked me to. I thought you wanted this to begin with.” Her grip on the ledge tightens, trying to resist her instincts in this situation, but I can feel the familiar tug of her hand at the backdoor of my mind anyhow.
“I did.” I say it quietly, tears pricking at my eyes. “But I didn’t mean it all the time.” My resistance is enough to banish her presence from my mind. The purple stain of my aura, created by the dirty blue of betrayal and the painful bright red of passionate fury, takes up all corners of my vision.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally, after a silence that feels like an eon. “I didn’t want to make you incomplete. Just better.”
Despite myself, I reach for her hand and squeeze, letting the purple that has run down my arms stain both of our hands like ink spilled over parchment. The crease has anchored itself once more on her forehead, her face registers only confusion. Apprehension lurks just beneath her tongue.
I smile for her. “It’s okay,” I say, knowing it might not be, but knowing that’s what I want. “Thank you for apologizing.”
She holds up our now purple-as-night arms, her lips part in a smile, the apprehension dispersing in the air.
“I love you,” she says to me, “and I want to make it right.”
Deep down in my stomach I believe her, and the deep purple cloud that surrounds us turns bright, then lilac, then is gone, and we are clean again.
Fresh Out of the Bronx
by The Cowl Editor on April 11, 2019
Portfolio
by Jessica Polanco ’20
Fashion is life, even when you are stuck in an elevator with a stranger. The fit must be trendy and outrageous even if the person next to you is wearing something basic. From head to toe it needs to be fire, nothing influenced by the President of the United States because, let’s be honest, his style is wack. “Style is a combination of your personality and who you are. If your outfit isn’t complimenting you, then what are you doing?”
Marienny says her ideal outfit is driven by her mood. She definitely knows that if someone comes to save her and that stranger from the elevator someday, she has to be wearing something comfortable. Maybe something from Kim Kardashian’s comfy wardrobe or straight out of Kanye West’s fashion line.
When she welcomed me into her room, I noticed the all-white FILA Disruptor Two’s that carried her. Complimented by an over-sized navy hoodie, gray striped leggings, and, of course, the hoop earrings. Hoop earrings and over-sized hoodies are part of the starter pack if you’re trying to fit in in the Bronx. The Bronx city influences her personal style, and she also believes that it has impacted the wardrobe of many teenagers of color across the world. Although she is a Bronx native, she currently resides in Fairfield, Connecticut where fashion isn’t taken too seriously. She confesses she’s been bullied into thinking her style was ugly because one day she showed up to her high school rocking the same FILA sneakers she is wearing right now, and her friends did not approve. Given that none of her friends, or the preppy white students from her school know anything about wardrobe styling, she saw this as an opportunity to set a trend. About three weeks after she made her mark with her sneakers, she was walking down the school’s hallway and couldn’t help but notice FILAs everywhere she turned. She grew bored of them because looking like everyone around her was a big NO in her fashion world; however, her next trend was still complimented by some sneakers because if she had to live with just one style of shoe for the rest of her life, it would be sneakers. “A girl gotta be comfortable,” she jokes while her tiny, innocent eyes squint.
Representing the shade of most lilac flowers, her walls painted light purple made her vision board pop above her twin bed. I couldn’t help but notice cut outs of the top fashion school in New York and a couple from California. In the mix are pictures of heels, fur coats, shades, brand logos, and a couple of quotes from famous designers, especially the infamous “la vie est belle.” The color compliments who she is, she claims her mother chose the purple but she then confesses that she loves it.
Besides the Bronx, Erica, her mom, has had a huge impact on her wardrobe. They grew up in the Bronx, but obviously Erica has been around longer which gives her permission to pass down some ancient fashion tips. Including the head-high-and-legs-crossed classiness that they both carry. At the dinner table, I couldn’t help but notice that they both held their pinkies up and wiped their mouth after every bite. Meanwhile, Marienny shares that after her, Erica is the only one who knows how to dress at the house. She cringed when I asked what she thinks of her roommate’s styles.
“Today I woke up feeling shitty,” Marienny says. “That’s why I threw on this big hoodie and sneakers. My outfit doesn’t just reflect who I am but it also shows the world how I’m feeling that day. Don’t get me wrong though, you always gotta spice it up. That’s when you throw on the hoops.” She wraps up her statement with a wink, a huge smile and a shrug. Expression is key, and it allows Marienny into people’s worlds.
She is always interested in your personality; good humor goes a long, long way. But if your shoes throw off your fit, she is going to question you. Like, who is this person and why am I associating myself with them? If your outfit is off, then chances are so are you. These are things she’ll think to herself, but her big heart will never allow her to say them out loud. “You are buggin’. I would never hurt anyone’s feelings. I believe everyone has their own style. Some more than others and definitely different from mine.” And it’s true. I have been waiting for her to comment on my wack outfit. I had on some light jeans, a big white tee, and orange slip-ons. But to her, a person always has the opportunity to make a great outfit for any occasion. That is when she complimented my shoes, saying she loved how they made a statement which complimented my outfit. Statements are a big deal and that is what it’s like dressing up for Marienny. Although her moods direct how she will dress that day, looking good will determine how she will carry out her day. “Look good, feel good.” And if she doesn’t, it will break her day, and she will be in a crabby mood.
Listening to J. Cole and eating vanilla wafers with her pinky up, she mentions that the world wouldn’t have color without fashion. “It is a type of art, and in this world, everyone seems to be an artist because we all have to dress ourselves every morning to face the world. If we all walked in our birthday suits, we would have no influence on who we are and, most importantly, it’d be impossible to carry on other people’s styles that have inspired us. Fashion is everything. Each walking person is a statement and a walking piece of art. I am glad I have the opportunity to carry out who I am in a way the whole world can see.” Her eyes begin to water. “Fashion is life.”
Horror
by The Cowl Editor on April 11, 2019
Portfolio
by Jay Willett ’20
“Psssssst, are you awake?” the girl whispered low across the cell to her prison mate. The boy twitched his leg slightly and grunted in affirmation. This response sparked irritation in the girl; she shook her chains and shackles so that they clattered against the base of the back wall. The absence of windows and light made it impossible for the girl to know if her efforts were awakening the boy, until he finally replied.
“Enough already, I’m trying to sleep,” said the boy in exasperation. The girl sighed and wiggled along the cold cobblestone so that her chains would reach their maximum extension. She had never touched the boy due to the limits of her binds. They would only allow her reach to the midsection of the cell—just short of the parallel wall to which the boy was shackled upon. Nonetheless, the girl tested the durability of the metal by yanking the iron weights towards her comrade. No luck, but the movement caused her quite a pain in the ankles.
“Please,” the girl pleaded, “I’m tired of the nightmares.” Sounds of clinking and scrapping emitted from across the chamber.
“I am too—but we need the rest,” the boy exhaled.
“D-do you think the maester-”
“No,” interrupted the boy. The girl ceased and crossed her legs sitting down. She wrinkled her nose and made a face of displeasure, not that he’d see it anyway. The boy had told her plenty of stories about his life before he was her cellmate, about the Reach, about the everglades. He had told her how his mother, who was also a brunette, made the best lamb stew on the west side of the continent. The girl loved his stories, but she always hosted an afterthought of sorrow wedged deep behind her heart. She was often jealous the boy had those memories, for she could never remember anything at all. But that’s why the boy was so important to the girl—he was her portal to the outside world.
“Please tell me a story—I can’t go to sleep like this,” the girl cried. “The horror is still there.” There was silence for a moment, and then the shackles shifted again.
“It’s not still there, the maester sees to it.”
“But it is!” The girl rose her voice. She didn’t mean to yell at the boy. The boy sighed as if he understood she hadn’t meant it.
“Close your eyes,” the boy instructed.
“Why? I can’t see-”
“Just do it,” the boy said. So the girl closed her eyes and held her breath. When she was awake, she could see nothing, but when she was asleep—she saw everything. But just then, with her eyes shut, the girl began to see them again. She began to scream incessantly, tears flowed from her grey pupils. Straining could be heard from across the cell, the boy pulled on his own bonds.
“Calm down! Fight them! Fight-” the boy quelled. Suddenly the iron entrance swung open with great force, the door clanging against the adjacent wall in recoil. The boy gritted his teeth, and the girl’s tears turned into soft whimpers. An elderly man stood between the two captives, staring at the boy in disapproval. He shook his head, then he knelt to the girl’s level and stroked the side of her cheek. The girl was not crying anymore, the boy was struggling with his chains.
“Shhhh, my child,” hummed the maester. “All will be forgotten now.” He hovered his frail hand over the girl’s cranium. In an instant she fell into a deep slumber, her breath became deep and smooth.
“The horror is gone now.”
The Unknown
by The Cowl Editor on April 4, 2019
Portfolio
by Grace O’Connor ’22
It was an image of a woman looking into the deep blue Atlantic Ocean, as the early morning sun broke through the clouds. The yellow sunlight filled her blue eyes with life. Her toes buried in the sand that had not been warmed by the sun yet. Her dirty blonde hair was being blown behind her shoulder. It was just her, no one else. She looked small, standing all alone on the quiet beach. She was still beside the swaying of the weeds in the sand dunes, and the movement of the water being pulled away from her.
She opened her eyes slowly and looked in the distance at the horizon, as if it held all of life’s answers, or at least she wished it did. The morning tide lapped against the sand as calmly as her breath and the seagulls above her head seemed to have an excitement about their destination, which made her wonder if she would ever have that enthusiasm again. Their calls reminded her of the time she spent on the beach with her children. She longed to be young again. The sweet taste of lemonade, the sound of people laughing, her not feeling lonely. The thought of it made her smile; it was a time when she had truly felt free and had her whole future ahead of her. Her eyes had held all the wonder in the world as they looked at the deep blue water, and she had laughed as the waves buried her feet in the wet sand that held seemingly hundreds of sand crabs which had tickled her feet. She would have enjoyed the opportunity to be a mother again and the time to live up to that moment of absolute happiness.
Although she missed her past greatly, she knew that life would keep moving forward and all she could do was appreciate its beauty. Watch her children grow up and be happy. Enjoy the simple things in life. She would always have her youthfulness and an unburnable light embedded inside herself. She closed her eyes again as the clouds separated to let the sun shine on the beach.
Square One
by The Cowl Editor on April 4, 2019
Portfolio
by Julia Zygiel ’19
The shrill cry of the alarm dispelled Tessa’s shade of sleep as her sock-covered feet hit the linoleum floor. She danced awkwardly across the room and swiped her smartphone’s notification bar to the side. She already knew it was 10 in the morning, that it was cloudy with a 60 percent chance of thunderstorms, and that her phone had woken her up four hours too late.
The traffic en route to the station was predictably awful. Construction on I-90 had been dragging on for months, and everyone else had finally caught on to her idea of taking back roads instead. She found herself surrounded by civilians in three-year-old sedans who had either had too much or too little coffee, though, at this point her arrival time didn’t matter.
Tessa grimaced as she choked the steering wheel. She was not looking forward to the smug grin Roberts would be wearing as she explained why she was late. The man was about as endearing as a three-day-old corn chip left on the wet floor of a truck in mid-winter, and almost as soggy.
Roberts didn’t make eye contact as Tessa swiped her badge and entered the prep room; he was too busy throwing together a briefing. She couldn’t help but notice the word “Top Secret” stamped across the top. Before he could slap the folder shut she noticed an alarming number of black bars on the sheets. She had picked the wrong day to mix up her alarms.
“Signals in Cleveland, Topeka, and Chicago,” Roberts grunted, kindly declining to comment on her tardiness.
“Same type of activity as before?” She asked, yanking her locker open with perhaps too much force.
“A bit more intense. Some shared information from Langley gave us the tip, and Secretary Valentine signed off on our part. We’re rolling out as soon as you gear up.”
“What kind of opposition are we anticipating? And is this a force op, something quiet, a raid, what?”
“This is worse. Heavy armor, hollow points. And bring the caduceus.”
Swearing under her breath, Tessa holstered her piece and threw on her liquid nanite jacket. The five-pointed star on the breast pocket glowed for an instant and then faded as she reached for the long, thin staff resting against the wall of the locker. A wave of goosebumps traversed her body as she strapped it to her back. As much as she hated to wonder what warranted its use, she couldn’t wait to see it in action.
“Do we have confirmation that this is a Broken Arrow incident?” she asked flatly.
Roberts sighed, and his shoulders slouched for a moment, his Sumerian ornamented rifle dipping closer to the floor.
“Yeah. Intercepted in transit somewhere in the midwest. Probably Kansas. We don’t really know where or how.”
“Jesus. First Atomwaffen, now these guys. Who guards these things, the Chicago Cubs?”
Roberts shrugged and got the door for her as they made for the garage. Their eyes met, and she felt her stomach turn. She didn’t want to think about if they would both survive to walk through these doors again.
By the time their team arrived, the suspects had been trapped in a decrepit warehouse by an FBI SWAT team for three hours already. They had been ordered to stand down while awaiting the team’s arrival, and as their SUV pulled up and the four of them hopped out of the back, the SWAT commander greeted them dryly.
“Pack it in boys, Dumbledore’s Army is here to save the day.”
“Can it. What’s the situation?” Tessa barked at the diminutive agent.
“Four confirmed hostiles. Two possibly armed, two holding the device. At least one of them is,” he paused and his upper lip wrinkled in disgust, “of your kind.”
“What’s the catch?” Roberts asked, barreling past the commander’s expression. Best not to let politics get in the way of national security.
“Local PD noticed the unusual activity, and two boys got capped. Once they realized there’d be more coming, they rigged the place up. It’s a death trap for anyone who doesn’t have your capabilities,” the commander stated darkly.
Tessa studied the facade of the warehouse. Covered in rust and without a single unbroken window, it seemed lacking as a battleground for the fate of the nation. She caught Roberts’ eye and, not wanting to acknowledge the despair in his eyes, unclipped the caduceus from her back. Now was a time for action, not feelings.
The front door and the lobby proved unremarkable, and even as they ventured further into the heart of the warehouse they encountered only a few easily disarmed IEDs. Each row of mildew and dust covered boxes they passed without incident only intensified Tessa’s anxiety. No way it could be this easy. The way Roberts had built it up, this was supposed to be their D-Day.
As if the universe had set out to punish her for failing to knock on wood, she heard the unmistakable click of a pistol hammer drawing back about five feet behind her. She saw Roberts’ eyes widen in dismay, but before he could get his mouth to produce more than a sputter, she had whipped around, the staff leading the arc of her motion into a connecting blow with the faceless gunman’s neck.
The sound of a log in a hydraulic press and the ghost of a scream echoed throughout the warehouse. An agent behind her gagged and stuttered, “That sound… were those his bones?” She couldn’t answer for sure; she knew from her training to avert her eyes, and there was nothing left of the man to examine.
She cleared her throat to suppress the tremor in her voice, “That’ll show the bastard.”
Straightening her back and squaring her shoulders, she signaled to Roberts to continue leading forward. No one spoke as they approached the last reported position of the hostiles.
The group’s unease at the lack of encounters was palpable, though none of them wanted to acknowledge the possibility of having gone to the wrong location. The last thing they needed was to consider the implications of bad intel in a possibly nuclear situation.
As they cleared the last row of the warehouse, Tessa turned to Roberts for reassurance that the sinking feeling in her stomach was misplaced. She found no solace in his eyes, which had practically glassed over as he looked at the bodies of the two young officers on the ground, their killers long gone. Roberts removed his helmet without a word, his hands growing unsteady, and suddenly whipped it into a pile of boxes with a tormented scream.
“If it’s not here, then…” one of the agents said, suddenly connecting the dots. Roberts tapped his earpiece, “Overwatch, this is Square One. Circle Opposition Forces unaccounted for, Broken Arrow has not been located. One enemy KIA, two friendlies confirmed KIA as well. Is there a secondary location, do we have anything to go on?”
He waited a moment before trying again, Tessa’s anxiety mounting for what felt like the 50th time that day.
“Overwatch, this is Square One.” After a pause, his voice tinged with desperation, “Do you copy?”
As was protocol, another officer began to hail command as well and pulled out his communications device to ensure it wasn’t malfunctioning. Suddenly his hand was clapped over his mouth, his eyes welling with tears, though they seemed devoid of emotion.
Tessa felt her heart plummet to the floor of her stomach. She’d seen that face before. Then Roberts put his hand to his ear suddenly, and as he listened, his whole body seemed to deflate. The anxiety that had picked up the moment they left station was a calcified lump in Tessa’s chest.
Roberts was quite a long time. “Understood,” he mumbled as he removed the earpiece and let it fall out of his hand.
“We lost this one,” his face screwed up in pain. “We lost a whole lot.”
The Irish Fairies
by The Cowl Editor on March 21, 2019
Portfolio
by Sarah Kirchner ’21
The Irish fairies were the ones you always heard about. They were the chimes in the forest you heard on windy days, and the sparkles that fell from the sky on a starry night. They were always there, but they hid it well. The fairies knew how to please the humans, even if the humans did not know the fairies were the ones doing it.
I heard the fairies once. They were always by the hills. Typically, they came out at night, but I saw them during the day. The lights of the sky came down to the grass and danced for me. It caught my breath, but made me feel so alive. I had never seen such a sight. For years, I was alone in the backyard staring up at the sky. I always thought nature spoke to me, but I never knew to what extent. When I was alone, the trees were there. The wind whistled, and the flowers swayed all for me. It wasn’t until I saw them that I knew there was a reason I was alone for so long.
“Ellaaa,” they sang to me. “Dance with usss.” They spoke like snakes, but their voices were light and airy. The sparkling lights were like hugs. All of a sudden, I was safe and loved.
My body moved with them. All up the hill the sparkles rose and tiny bodies emerged in the sky. They all had transparent wings and translucent dresses. They were the size of my pinky, but I could see them so clearly. They became a part of me immediately, and I knew my place in the world.
“Your place is with us now, Ellaaaa.” All together, the voices called to me. My heart was filled.
For years, I had let bullies torture me. In the schoolyard, they taunted me for enjoying the outdoors. I told them that I had a connection with the world, and they all laughed in my face. I went 16 years feeling helpless, feeling as if I didn’t belong. But deep down I knew it was all going to change. And the fairies did that. They saved me. They made me find myself.
“Ella, welcome home.” Together, all the fairies gathered around me. The greens of the hill turned greener. The dirt began to shine, and the clouds swirled together like cotton candy. In that moment, I saw the magic of it all. I understood that I needed to go through the suffering in order to find my magic.
“Thank you,” I whispered to them all. As one, they smiled at me. They all grabbed hands and floated around me. They formed a circle, and the sun poured down. All of nature was coming together, and all I could think was that it was coming together for me.
“You’re safe now, Ella.” A tear dripped down my cheek. They were my security blanket.
Then, in that moment, the sparkles came closer to me. They took control and suddenly everything became one bright light. I was becoming one of them. I was going home. And suddenly, everything felt complete.
The Shrink
by The Cowl Editor on March 21, 2019
Portfolio
by Sam Ward ’21
I. The eeriness of this silent ride spelled out perfectly in his memory. It was dark and the road seemed to carry itself longer than normal. His eyes fixated on the yellow lines as they illuminated underneath the high beams of his beat up truck, darting and flickering his tired eyes to stay awake.
The familiar, shadowy figure appeared in his peripheral vision once more. He’d normally feel the tension coming strong, first through his clenched fists, then through his body, the blood, fat, the lymph. It all provided a welcoming medium before swallowing itself in the pit of his stomach. However, he felt no anxiety at all as he turned himself to set his gaze upon the phantom figure for the first time.
II. Before Will gave himself a chance to open his eyes, his arm clumsily swung to silence the alarm clock. Will should have reveled in his fleeting ignorance, as it was only fractions of a moment after waking that Will had remembered that this was an important day. 5:26 a.m. The clock read. What was time anyway? William thought in his head. He took a deep breath.
Will is blessed with a number of quirks. The Shrink had some written on his case notes, which Will had snuck an image in his brain of:
Will Harlow. 27 years old, caucasian male. Paranoid schizophrenic, exhibited auditory and visual hallucinations, as well as delusions after mental breakdown last April. Appears responsive to medication although had called during dissociative episodes. Increase dosage of medication.
Not cooperative with others.
Will simply understood the importance of being wakeful before others. It was a primal drive, a hunger. To fight the waves of negative energy that suddenly crept in the messy apartment, Will let his fingers find the flask. He stopped himself, and the sun peaked itself through the blinds.
The phone began ringing. Will picked up before the second ring.
“Hello,” Will attempted to sound clear and put together in case it was his ex calling.
The voice on the other line remained silent.
III. The suit jacket fit awkwardly over his lanky frame. The jacket was black, with a tie to match, and an off-white shirt. Will stood outside the office where his father had arranged a job interview. Will felt an obligation to ace this interview, as if this would stop him from moving back in with his parents. Clinically bonkers and getting high everyday. However, he knew he was overqualified. He was a stellar student at his university with a full range of experience. He knew he had worked under the top lawyer in the entire city. He knew he had helped win case after case with his mentor guiding him. He knew this. This was all true. He was far above being a legal assistant in some crummy office. But The Shrink had told him that due to his diagnosis, this was the best chance to land a job in the field of his major. He still had to prove himself. It was the only pill he was still willing to swallow.
It turns out delusions of grandeur don’t score well in an interview.
IV. The wheel was grasped tightly, the hand white with tension. Pupils dilated from the rush of dopamine, and his illness rearing its ugly head. This was the break from reality, an out-of-kilter matter nightmares consist of.
He pulled to the side of the road before shutting his eyes. He wasn’t trying to sleep. The fear was paralyzing, but not a paralysis he couldn’t bear. For the next couple moments he remained frozen in comfortable cognition, free of reality’s treacherous truths.
It was then that he knew he had to call The Shrink.
V. He finally understood the motives of the phantom stalker when he turned to it. It was at that moment that Will set his gaze upon The Shrink.
Fear swelled and anger rose when Will realized that The Shrink had invaded the very places reality couldn’t go. The Shrink now occupied Will’s delusions. He realized now that the truck reeked of menthols.
Will was generally a very impatient person. He found solace in his delusions and escaped to his fantasyland, using psychoactive drugs to achieve this. For that, it is not surprising that he was completely unhinged by the presence of a familiar face.
He hurled the car across lanes and jerked the wheel needlessly on the empty, never ending road. Will screamed and cried, and it was at that moment he knew that he loved the mania. He fed on the euphoria. His mood would again cascade to divergent thoughts. But I wasn’t going to let that happen. His unconscious was too far gone to save. It was after that moment that I began to count down from 3 in order to snap him out of his hypnotic trance.
3, 2, 1 . . .
The Tailored Criteria
by The Cowl Editor on March 7, 2019
Portfolio
by Jessica Polanco ’20
When I walked into the building, I noticed how easy it was to just push through the doors and walk into any classroom. I wondered if the police car outside of the school was just for decoration. I do not know if it was intentional to place the Main Office on the second floor, but I guess that saves intruders from getting to the administrators quicker. That is what I felt like, an intruder. Although I blended in with the students that walked the hallway, I felt like an outsider. None of the students wondered who I was and no one approached me to ask me if I need guidance looking for the office. I guess I did not wear my heart on my sleeve that day, and my eyes were not crying for help.
As I entered into the room, the first thing I realized were the dull colored walls. The cubicle was covered in neutral colors that held less life than those at a funeral. I was the only one moving in the room; being the only unfamiliar face, and they still could not acknowledge me. There were five elderly ladies sitting behind their computers and once I greeted them, their eyes wandered to find me. “Hello, I am here to see Mr. Creel,” I let them know. Moments after signing in, they sent me away, never once looking into my eyes.
I found myself in the hallways again with the students who probably thought I was one of them. There were several students lined up outside of the principal’s office waiting to meet. It was not clear about what, but once the principal arrived, he shot them down, letting them know he was not available to meet with them at the moment. They pouted and sighed angrily. It must have been something that they were really passionate about if they reacted that way, I thought to myself. And that is when the flashbacks began. I remembered roaming the hallways during my classes senior year of high school, searching for my guidance counselor to let her know about the acceptance letters that I had received. I also remembered getting dismissed by the same person I was looking for, feeling like no one cared about my success, about everything that I had worked hard for. The betrayal that I felt that day, I found it again in these kids’ eyes. They looked at me like they were waiting for their lottery ticket out of there.
Moments after realizing Mr. Creel’s class was still in session, I was invited to wait in the guidance counselor’s office while time passed. The woman who extended the invitation resembled the ladies from the front desk. They must have certain appearance criteria that is checked off during the hiring process, I thought. I was soon distracted by the motivational quotes on the wall. The quotes were printed on copy paper, as if they were chosen specifically for those who walked through the door. I say this because one of them read, “Don’t waste your time trying to explain yourself to anyone because those who care believe you and those who don’t care already don’t believe you,” and I was soon reeled in. I could relate to this I thought, this could be some sort of motto for myself. But it also made me wonder if this is how they planned to program these kids, teaching them to not to use their voice.
As I was waiting, I overheard chatter coming from a room that was lit by a dim yellow light. Not that there was a lamp with a yellow lightbulb, but all the light protectors seemed to not have been cleaned in years. The voice was coming from a woman who fit the criteria. In a low, friendly voice, she said, “Get out of my office.” At first I thought this lady was rude for speaking to children that way until she began her conversation with the next student who stepped in. A tall, dark-skinned, teenage female was showered in motivational words. The words sounded like they were set on a tape recorder that was set to play every morning. In a very monotone expression the woman encouraged the young lady to believe in herself and to check out a summer internship that she wanted her to try out. I never heard anything come out of the young girl’s mouth which left me to wonder, the criteria used for the employment of this school was not tailored for the students. It reminded me of me when I was a senior in high school trying to find someone who actually cared about my future as much as I did.
Strangers
by The Cowl Editor on March 7, 2019
Portfolio
by Julia Zygiel ’19
Five years ago, while he was sitting in some stoner’s basement with music blasting and underage drinking tornadoing its way through a high school party, Erik finally clicked in James’ head. They’d been friends for three years leading up to that, and at that point, James liked to say that Erik had about 20 different people living in his head. With every different situation that James saw him in, he was different. When it was just the two of them he was chill. They played Call of Duty and Halo until their eyes burned from the strain. When they were with those of a more popular crowd Erik was all about drinking and getting high. With girls it didn’t matter what clique or creed they belonged to, it was always smooth city.
At that particular party, James had spotted at least five different Eriks. The stoner that was hosting was a surprisingly popular kid, and the party provided a decent spread of high school specimens. James was high as a kite, vegging out on a couch whose history he didn’t want to think about, and Erik was ever the social butterfly, moving quicker around the room than James’ eyes could track him. That was when it clicked. James always thought he was smarter stoned.
Erik was a performative creature. He existed only as others perceived him. James smirked at himself. His mother would be proud that the SAT prep course she was paying for was increasing his vocabulary. Erik, at this moment, was wide-chested and tall, talking with the football jocks and effortlessly cradling the can of Bud Light in his hand. James was fairly sure that when Erik was completely alone he just stared blankly at the wall until a personality he could feed off of happened upon him. He shuddered at the thought. Creepy.
Five years ago was the last time James saw Erik, his light blonde hair stained blue in the LED lights of the party. After a week of radio silence James had shown up at Erik’s house uninvited, musing with a smile that he’d just shut down without enough people around to sustain him. But no one answered the door, and Erik hadn’t been to school in a week. The whole family, it seemed, had packed up and left without a word given to a neighbor or friend. Only Mrs. Stuart, the woman across the street, knew where they went. They had left her with the family dog, Bentley. “They went away, wanted to live among nature,” she told James, the little Scottish Terrier trembling in her arms, “Guess the hustle and bustle of suburban life just gets to be too much for some folks.”
The Third Outing
by The Cowl Editor on February 14, 2019
Portfolio
by Erin Lucey ’20
February 14, 2014
Dear Diary,
Today will be my third time leaving the comfort of my cozy yet dreary, constantly bustling yet lonely hospital room since I moved in four months ago. I only really leave for very special occasions–the past two being my 25th birthday and Christmas Day. I was a little confused as to why I was leaving for Valentine’s Day. Ever since the accident I’ve had trouble remembering my relatives, for Christ’s sake. I was not sure why anyone would even consider taking me out on a date in this condition.
However, Mom begged me to say yes to this cute boy who visits my hospital room every weekend. I couldn’t decide if he was creepy. The first couple of months that I was here, I would often ask him to leave. I felt bad because he was always really nice, but I was having a really difficult time adjusting to my life here. I didn’t even remember my parents when I first woke up. I needed time to do the whole get-to-know-my-own-family thing. He was always super understanding, which I really appreciated. He would leave with a smile, never offended or frustrated, and would show up at the same time the next weekend like clockwork.
At first, I thought he was a volunteer for the hospital. Probably some random guy that was bored on the weekends looking for some easy community service hours, popping into the inpatient rooms and trying to chat someone up until he convinced himself that he has somehow fulfilled his duty. That first theory was shot down when I saw my mom talking to him in the hallway after I asked him to leave one day. Before they parted ways she hugged him and then kissed him on the cheek. My mom is not an overly affectionate person, so that was a dead giveaway that he is much more familiar than I thought.
After that, I was pretty convinced that he was a close family friend–someone I grew up with that happens to live in the area. He’d never mentioned anything about how we knew each other before I wound up here. I was surprised when he asked me on a Valentine’s Day date. While I did have a bit of a crush on him at that point, it did not feel like we were necessarily hitting it off during his short visits.
Anyway, he is here to pick me up right now. I ran back into the room to put the flowers he gave me in water before we go. Just as I lift the bouquet into the vase I see it…an engagement ring…with a note that reads “Round Two?”-J
