Tag: fiction
Mirror
by Andrea Traietti on September 27, 2018
Portfolio
by Julia Zygiel ’19
I look into the mirror, my nose centimeters from touching the glass frosted with my breath. I try to spot what he sees in my eyes. A storm? Perhaps. I study the edge of a scar that eternally creeps towards my tear duct, a finger of lightning that is always a zillionth of a second from grounding itself in my cornea.
In my nightmares the scar advances, forking through my iris and leaving it glassy and white, clouded by an impenetrable fog. I blink, convinced for a moment that the fog really has replaced my left eye. Accustomed to the momentary panic it brings, I rub at my left eye, pleased to see my own blue irises in the rusted mirror when I open them again. I sigh, lean away from the mirror and pick up my toothbrush. Just a nightmare.
It starts raining as I walk to our meeting—quietly, softly. It would feel comforting if not for the cold, calming if not for the threatening rumble of thunder in the distance.
From inside the coffee shop the rain rages in full force, throwing itself against the window with clear intentions of breaking it. I draw my cardigan around my body and tie my scarf a little closer. Despite the rain, I’m the only one seeking shelter here. My hands curl around the watery cup of coffee that justifies my presence to the teenage barista. The bell on the door announces the entry of another rain-refugee and I jump even though I was expecting it. I turn to meet the familiar grimace of my mentor who loves storms, but hates getting wet. Who, despite expecting me to accept his quirks, still derides me for being jumpy.
He sits without buying a cup of watery coffee. The barista doesn’t acknowledge him. Argus nods to me and we dampen our auras just a tad, just enough to be avoided and unnoticed by those not looking for us. We don’t think of what happens if someone steps in who is looking for us. What happens if they see through the shroud.
“The book store wasn’t good enough for you? You had to follow me into the dinky coffee shop with the seats that make my ass sore?” I shiver at the draft that entered the coffee shop with him.
“You know how these meetings work. Destined and clandestine. They don’t follow our plans.”
“They don’t, or you don’t?”
“We are victims of chance, all of us.”
“Okay…” I’m not sure how much longer I can withstand Argus’ mysticism for the sake of my cause. “So why are we here?”
He slides a sealed manila envelope across the table, overly dramatic as always.
“Are these new lessons?” I let too much enthusiasm color my voice. Argus chides me with only a look. I’m too emotive, too reactive for his tastes. Too unpredictable. He would prefer another apprentice and I another mentor, but there is not a wide range to choose from.
“We are a dying breed,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. I’m not sure if that’s a skill of his, if he could teach it to me. I don’t ask.
“And?”
“There’s rumors that it’s not a natural extinction. We’re being hunted down. Our kin are disappearing from circles across the country. Every week it’s someone new, perhaps a family. In the envelope is who you need to contact in case I miss a meeting some day. Only if I miss a meeting.”
“Oh, stop playing with my heart strings, old man.” Despite my sarcasm, a pit settles in my stomach as I slide the envelope into my backpack. “When are you going to teach me something beyond the incantations and the shroud? I want to help keep this thing alive.”
“If you truly wanted to keep us alive you would value our tradition of caution. It’s been our survival all these years.” I know him well enough to tell that what he’s about to say is difficult for him to admit. “Nevertheless, we seem to be running out of time. Our circle is in desperate need of full-fledged members. With our current numbers we would be no hope against whatever this menace may be.”
I can’t hide a grin and his grimace returns in equal measure. I know he pretends to hate me—I know he thinks I believe him. But, in theory, he should hate storms too. In reality, that ‘storm’ he thinks he sees in me has won him over; my scars have incited his pity. To him, I am the perfect candidate for the circle. I seem down-trodden, powerless, and willing to take extreme measures to even the playing field of the world he’s finally letting me into. He tells me what I already know.
“I think you’re still too brash, too emotional, but the others have forced my hand. Tonight you shall be inducted into our circle. You can finally join our efforts towards the Endgame.”
The apocalypse.
A Forgotten Party
by Andrea Traietti on September 13, 2018
Portfolio
by Julia Zygiel ’19
She was a party girl and no one knew why. She was just an anxious, quiet kind of person, someone who would shoulder all of your burdens for an hour-long drunken conversation and then shrug off into the next room, desperate to be invisible again. She wasn’t the anxious-but-calms-with-drugs-and-alcohol type either. In fact, substances made it worse, they made her paranoid about getting caught, nearly tearful over the thought of her Pa finding out. Yet she attended every party, every hang out that ended up consisting of the entire junior class, she was the one constantly in a high school world of never ending drama and ever ending relationships. Graciously, her peers let her maintain the comfortable position of “fly on the wall” and, graciously, she never spread the secrets they so enjoyed leaving with her.
She liked to watch, she told me once. Liked to see everyone interact, as if we were exhibits in a zoo. “It’s entertaining. Beats being home with my family all the time.” I’d only asked why she never actually partied if she was such a ‘party person.’ Wasn’t quite sure how the conversation had reached this point. I nodded and drifted away, not wanting to feel like I was being studied. After that, she pulled me aside at two different parties to tell me that someone had slipped something in my drink. I’d never seen her willingly engage with anyone else before. I guess no one else had ever made an attempt to get to know her.
The legendary party, she couldn’t handle. It wasn’t a surprise. Compared to this, she was a babe in the woods, a complete goody-two shoes. Though, in retrospect, most of us high schoolers were too. She attended, of course, dressed in her finest t-shirt and shorts, hair in a neat ponytail. It was ok. She got worried something might happen a couple times, but it turned out to be nothing. Her fears were stupid, as usual.
Then there was the fight. No one knew (no one knows even now) what it was about, just that someone pulled a gun (a real live bullet shooting gun holyshitwereallgoingtodie die die). A tense moment of staring, nothing but staring and true fear, passed. Until someone on the outskirts of the ring that had formed laughed out of pure terror. And suddenly everyone was laughing, laughing away the tension and worry that had built up so quickly. Everything was so wonderful and funny and great. She laughed too, but something was nagging
(Gun still cocked bullet ready we’re still going to die everyone of us all of us)
her.
All troubles were forgotten but she was shaking with fear, she wanted to curl up like an armadillo just to stay
(We’re all dead screwed so scared so scared)
safe.
When time slowed down, the gun fell from a hand and clattered to the ground. She moved at a fraction of the speed of the bullet and she really had no hope. She never did. It went crashing through her skull, blood and brains littering the pavement below her body. Scream after scream rang out, but none from her.
When the cops came around to take statements, none of us could remember her name.
A Strange Request at a Piano Bar
by The Cowl Editor on April 26, 2018
Portfolio
by Dawyn Henriquez ’19
The carnival rhythms bounced across the ivory keys in disjointed synchrony. “Entry of the Gladiators” was a strange request at Sal’s, where classical bullshit was typically demanded. As soon as Sal started the almost juvenile theme music of circuses, the musings of the pseudo-intellectuals at the bar sprained over one another, tripping into silence. A mask fell over each of them—faux-elitism stretching their features in disgust as they all tried to discern what in the hell was going on. The controversy was as delicious as the scent of sassafras that Sal loved to hang in the air. Awkward glances at the glowing Bösendorfer emitting the hymns of carnies everywhere was really what did it for me. This piano was older than the audience’s collective age. It was expected that its cords would only ever play Bach or Beethoven before it would give way to oxidation. Instead, Sal’s fingers twirled to clownery and the pedestrianly perceived artistry of an era. After all, it’s only known so well because it was once so popular. But, like all great music, it was overplayed, overhashed, and turned into a cliché as common as the trope of a piano bar in literature.
“Hey honey, lemme get another dirty martini.”
Sleeping Traffic Lights
by The Cowl Editor on April 26, 2018
Portfolio
by Jonathan Coppe ’18
1:35 a.m.—Two brutes sitting in an SUV. Intersection along Route 50. Traffic light is the only outside illumination; no moonlight; their headlights are off. Inside the car the overhead cab light is off. SUV parked on the side of the road, in the dirt and grass. A voice comes over the speaker:
“Still no sign. We’re guessing, maybe, another 40 minutes.”
The fat one in the car shoots back:
“Who’s we?”
No response.
2:00 a.m.—The other man in the SUV, who is toned and muscular and wears a pinstripe buttondown, has taken out his phone and put on music. They are now pushing an hour and a half in the vehicle. Still no sign of the target.
The nearest cellphone tower offers no internet; they are confined to the one album stored on the phone.
Only the Lonely by Sinatra, now set to play on repeat for the rest of the night.
No cars pass by. A coyote occasionally wanders past. The wind blows. The traffic light makes its round of colors: Red, green, yellow; red, green, yellow; red green yellow; red green…
“Maybe we can go get some girls after this. What do you say?”
2:10 a.m.—The fat one picks up the mic and wires over the radio:
“Any sign yet? We’re almost at that 40 minutes.”
Dead static for a moment. The reply:
“We’ll let you know when we see her.”
The coiffed one (taking the mic):
“Are you sure she’s coming? Might’ve gotten spooked, you know. Maybe she knows we’re out here. Think she heard tell somehow?”
No response.
“Do we have someone checking up on that?”
Dead static.
“Bastard.”
All quiet outside, and inside Frankie over the tiny phone speaker, “…It’s a lonesome old town when you’re not around. How I wish you’d come back to me…”
“You got any smokes?”
2:30 a.m.—A couple cigarettes apiece, ashes out the window. On to talk about baseball and their girls at home. Fat one has a skinny one. Coiffed one has a ditz. Ditz won’t put out, though, and he’s not happy about it. Fat one’s girl won’t either, but that’s okay; he doesn’t mind; he likes spending time with her; she’s smart.
“She’s real classy, and, like, vintage style. She’s got these cute glasses, you know, and a red polka-dot bandana she wraps over her head. It’s cute. Real 1950s-style, with the way those glasses poke out of the bandana. Real cute.”
“So you don’t want to see about any girls after this, huh?”
“Huh? No. You can, though. I’m not stopping you.”
“Nah. No fun when you’re the only one.”
“I guess not. Anyway, it looks like we’ll be out here all night. No way this chick’s coming. Something’s got her spooked.”
“Yep. Just gonna sit here ‘til dawn, it looks like. Then that asshole over the radio will wire in and tell us to go home. Fuck us, man.”
He chuckles. He sighs. “How many smokes you got in that pack?”
2:40 a.m.—A voice over the radio:
“We see her. We’re shutting off the light now. Expect her in about 10 minutes.”
And with that the traffic light suddenly goes black.
2:45 a.m.—Two car headlights appear on the horizon, speeding down the road toward the SUV. Everything else is black, black and quiet. There are only the speeding car headlights.
“There she is.” (The coiffed one, his voice eager.)
The fat one turns the key in the ignition and the engine starts. It is the quietest part of the night. The men listen to their breathing and to the sound of the tires rolling along the road in the distance, getting steadily closer, steadily louder, always closer, always louder.
2:48 a.m.—The woman’s car is in clear view now. A sedan, ’90s model. The coiffed man clutches his assault rifle tightly. The fat one keeps his foot hovering over the gas and checks the pistol on his side, making sure the holster is unlatched and the safety switched off.
They are breathing heavily now and watching the car. They wait for the right moment.
2:50 a.m.—The car is so close they can almost smell it, suddenly it slows down to a halt.
“She knows something’s wrong.”
Indeed, out of the corner of her eye she has seen the base of the traffic lights and realizes they are off. Terrified, she stops.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit…”
Her car idles right in front of the SUV.
“That’s it!”
The coiffed man jumps from the SUV. He aims and pulls the trigger. The shots burst into the night. The woman’s wheels screech loudly and her engine revs.
“Shit shit shit…”
The SUV revs and screeches and speeds forward to ram her. The timing is all off now. It only makes contact with the side of the trunk. The car swerves, but the element of surprise is lost. She keeps her foot on the gas.
The car is not all in her control, however, and she cannot keep from swerving off the road. The coiffed one keeps his aim on her. She barrels towards him. He pulls the trigger. Shots bray out into the night and the bullets pierce her windshield, but the car barrels on. He plays chicken and jumps away at the last moment, but his foot is caught under the tire.
“Urgjhjhhh!!”
The car slows to a halt. The fat one has run over. No movement. He goes over to the still car and looks inside. He turns to the coiffed one and gives the thumbs up.
Back in the SUV, he picks up the mic:
“All good. She’s taken care of.”
The traffic lights wake up, and the land is quiet again.
Tales From The RIPTA
by The Cowl Editor on April 26, 2018
Portfolio
by Marisa DelFarno ’18
*based on real encounters
There was once a man who looked like your average man—blue jeans and a grey sweatshirt—but he was ridden with the mouth of a sailor, or a wannabe rebellious 13-year-old, despite little children being seated right near him. He was on the phone, and whoever he was on the other line with was really pushing his buttons because he was sprinkling out every swear word in the book. Every word. For at least 5 minutes straight. I guess no other words sufficed.
* * *
He sat across from me, his feet stretched out in the narrow, dusty aisle. He wore old sandals that were completely demolished. I was shocked he was able to walk in them considering their condition. However, seated within his sandals were probably the dirtiest feet I have ever seen. Long, grime ridden toenails, parading themselves openingly in the middle of the aisle. They extended approximately an inch and a half to two inches past his nail beds, fitting more to the definition of claws than nails. Much to my bewilderment, his nails were so long that they were curving, digging slightly into his skin.
I did not have lunch that day.
* * *
The guy with the claws was not the only person lacking any attention to hygiene. I found myself sitting behind a young, high school-aged kid with a canary yellow mohawk, reeking with the distinct smell of body odor and uh…urine. The noxious combination of the two worst smells in the universe was so bad but I felt like it would be very obvious and rude if I moved seats. I instead held my nose in my sleeve for the whole duration of the bus ride.
* * *
There were two men, sitting side by side. One distinctly looked like he was in his seventies, while the other looked exactly like the younger version of him. They both wore the same exact red skullcap, the same charcoal colored peacoat, and the same thick, Ray- Ban framed glasses. They looked like twins, but you could easily tell that one was much older than the other. When I first saw them, I wondered if their matching outfits were merely coincidental, but then I encountered them a second time, and you’ve guessed it: they were again wearing the same exact outfit.
* * *
He trudged onto the bus, holding his black blazer together with both hands. He swiftly paid and plopped himself on one of the couch seats across from me. Upon sitting down, he let it all out, his bare chest and gut. He had no shirt underneath his blazer. Just a layer of curled chest hair. Apparently, he was exempted from the “no shirt, no shoes, no service” policy, or the driver just did not notice or care. The lady sitting next to me, equally as dumbfounded as me, whispered in my ear, “Nothing surprises me on the RIPTA anymore.” I could not agree more.
* * *
She was roaring for all ears to hear. “First, they have chips on our cards. Next, the government is going to have chips in people’s heads! You watch. First the credit cards, then our brains!”
At first, I thought she was joking, but she kept repeating the statement as a means to emphasize, with her wide eyes conveying a sense of seriousness. She was not joking at all, nor was the man she was talking to laughing, but instead nodding his head in agreement. I still do not know if he was nodding his head out of fear, or if he actually personally agreed with her.
* * *
I snaked my way through the crowd and stepped into the line, waiting until it evened itself through the little doors of the bus.
Due to the amount of people there, it was taking a while. I looked at the bus itself and realized there was an ad for a local sleazy lawyer nestled on the side of it, with a humorous, Sharpie-drawn mustache. I chuckled to myself, but I looked above the ad and my expression completely changed. I noticed my own reflection cast by the bus window.
My hair, probably due to the wind, was an absolute mess. It was in knots, all frizzy and crazy like a witch’s hair. I was a bit taken back and almost horrified, but that was not the only thing I noticed. My face also had weather induced rosacea, red as a ripe tomato. And, there was more. My battered shoes were untied, waiting for my inevitable fall. My socks were also mismatched. Well, that is what you get when you forget to do laundry. And, my shirt had a stain on it, a residue of today’s lunch, on the one day when I decided to wear white.
And then, the epiphany hit me like one-thousand bullets. I have become one of them.
“Iceberg Ahead!”
by The Cowl Editor on April 26, 2018
Portfolio
by Marisa Gonzalez ’18
The world around me begins to fade. The colors of my room come together and form a collage. At first I am nervous, but a little excited. This mixture of colors has never happened before. I try to widen my eyes to get a better view, but they begin to slowly close. My heart races, my breathing quickens, and I am no longer excited. As quickly as my world became color, it turns black.
I feel like I am drifting in the middle of nowhere. My eyes still do not open and my heart continues to race. What is happening? How did I end up here? Why me? What did I do? I am alone with my thoughts. My heart feels like it is about to burst. I want my mom. I want my cat. I want my blanket. I want to wake up. This dream is not fun. Where am I? Someone help! Please! Where am I? My heart continues to race. Why am I alone?
Suddenly, I feel a chill. Then another one takes my body over. I begin to shake uncontrollably. Where did the warmth go? I feel wind slap my face. Where am I? Am I on Earth again? I hear something. Waves? I feel something solid. My feet are cold. My hands are frozen. I am scared and shaking. My eyes no longer feel heavy. Can I open them? Should I open them?
I feel another slap of wind. Slowly, I open my eyes and the world comes into view. It is not what I was expecting. The world is very blue and I seem to be standing on something metal. My bare feet are frozen, and I continue to shake. My teeth chatter. I am so cold I want to cry.
Taking a deep breath, I begin to look around. I see some black shapes, but I can’t quite make them out. My eyes begin to tear up, making my vision worse. Where am I? Suddenly I see a bright light and two figures nearby. One figure speaks.
“Lieutenant, report!”
Lieutenant?
“Nothing, sir,” the other figure responds.
Where am I? I take a few steps forward, though it is difficult with my frozen feet. I tightly wrap myself around my thin night shirt and begin to inch towards the black figures. Something catches my leg and I fall over. I must have made a noise because a dark figure rushes towards me.
“Miss, are you alright?”
A man’s voice. I look up and see the figure bending down offering his hand. His face comes into view, and I see a middle-aged man with a nice smile. I smile back and my cheeks warm up. Oh no, I think I am blushing!
“Miss? Are you alright?” he asks again. This time I take his hand and he pulls me up.
“Y-yes, I- I’mmmm okayyy.” My teeth chatter and my cheeks increase in heat.
“Miss, what are you doing up here? You are supposed to be in bed. Is everything all right? Oh. You must be freezing. A young lady should not be up here all by herself in such little clothing.” And there go the cheeks again.
“I-I’m s-sorryyy. I th-think I’m l-l-l lost. Wh-where am I-I?”
The man sighs and shakes his head. Placing a hand on my head, he says “You are on the Titanic. Perhaps you hit your head. Would you liked to get checked out?”
Did he say the Titanic? Maybe I should get checked out. “Ti-Titanic!” I scream.
“Yes, Miss. Would you like a doctor?”
Titanic. I am on the Titanic. The unsinkable boat that sinks! I begin to hyperventilate and look around. I see the ocean. So, I am on a boat. Then I see white stuff floating in the ocean. Ice! Icebergs! Titanic’s enemy.
“Oh no no no! N-no! This c-cannot be happening!”
“Miss?”
“Where is the captain? Where he is? I need to see the captain!”
“Miss, you need to go see a doctor.”
“No!” I growl. “I need to see the captain, NOW!” I shout in his face and claw at his jacket. The man shakes his head and pats my head. He takes my hand and guides me to the birds nest. I try to break free from his grasp, but I am too cold to put up much of a fight.
“Sir. I found this girl on the deck. She wishes to speak to the captain. She fell and may have hit her head. What should I do?”
This man is stupid. Take me to the captain, duh! Before the other man could speak I shout, “L-look, I kn-know that this b-boat is going to hit an iceberg. I n-need to t-tell the captain to b-be careful.” The other man looks at me like I am crazy.
He opens his mouth but I beat him to it. “T-this b-boat is going to sink! Okay? S-sink!” The other man smiles. Great, now he really thinks I’m crazy.
“Ma’am. You hit your head. This ship is unsinkable!” He laughs. Great. Another idiot.
“No! I-it’s not! S-someone said it wasss unsinkable. B-but was it t-tested! Huh? N-no. It wasn’t and b-because of thisss the ship will h-hit an iceberg, sink, and p-people will die!”
He laughs again.
“Ma’am, you’re cold and tired. You can’t think. Now please. Go to bed and let me do my work.”
Why is this happening? I begin to hyperventilate and the first man sees this. He sighs and places his hand on my shoulder. “Come with me.”
We walk down the crow’s nest and into the captain’s quarters. The door opens and I rush in and shout, “Captain. Iceberg. Sink. Death. I’m not crazy. From future. Listen, please!”
The captain laughs a jolly, grandpa-like laugh and I look up at him. He’s smiling. I sigh.
“My. You have quite a lot to say. Now, repeat yourself slowly.”
I take a deep breath and tell him the whole story. He rubs his beard. “Hmmm. Interesting. Now. I truly don’t believe she will sink, but I have grown attached to this ship and will be careful with her. Thank you for your concern.”
I sigh. Then, I catch something out of my eye. It’s white and big! Iceberg! I grab the captain’s sleeve and point him towards the iceberg.
“Iceberg ahead. Iceberg ahead!” The man from the bird’s nest calls. I close my eyes and feel the ship take a quick turn. I’m hyperventilating again. A hand touches my shoulder.
“It is ok. We have made it.”
I open my eyes and look at an open sea. Yes, yes, we have.
Sunday Starvation
by The Cowl Editor on March 15, 2018
Portfolio
by Jay Willett ’20
The terrain was drenched in the heavy snow—New England had not been kind to my travels, but I still trekked on. My car had broken down around SR-3, and since it was the apocalypse, there were no other options other than the standard walking. I walked through Braintree; the flames had engulfed the mall as I sprinted for the next exit.
Three weeks ended up passing by, and soon enough I realized that I had not had anything to eat during that time. I was too focused on survival but forgot the most crucial element to it all. Every Dunkin’ Donuts I ran by was either overrun by animals or had already burnt to the ground (much like how they toast their bagels).
The McDonalds weren’t much better, as most of them had become arms dealers and ceased selling Big Macs. What I would have done for a nice juicy Big Mac. Anyway, I heard a legend through the grapevine that there was still one restaurant open, one that serves everything from pastas to meats. I was thrilled when I heard the news and headed out in the direction of Providence.
When I arrived back on campus after the apocalypse, I saw that things didn’t bode well for Providence College. People had stolen from the business school, the torch had been toppled (probably the first to go), and Slavin Lawn looked like there was another alumni event that had one of those obnoxiously huge tents that killed the grass. I mean seriously, $60 grand and they just kill the grass like it means nothing and then don’t tend to it for two months? Talk about an eyesore.
Right, sorry, it’s the apocalypse. Anyway, the transformers were blown out, multiple emails from RAs and security littered my inbox, and trees were blown to the side like toys. I thought to myself, somebody could have gotten impaled by those trees! Everything seemed like a New England nor’easter came barreling through and there was zero preparation, but that’s just a guess. Just then I reunited with one of my classmates from school, Jordan.
“Jordan! Jordan! Wake up, my man, what happened here?!” I yelled as I slapped his tender face to consciousness. He groggily rose from the dead brown grass and yawned.
“What happened? I dunno, I’ve been passed out since the Xavier game; my buddies and I got so trashed after it.”
“You didn’t even watch the Nova game, then?” I asked with a panic.
“My heart couldn’t handle two OTs; I needed to rest,” he said with pain in his voice. I put my hand on his shoulder.
“There were three,” I said, and Jordan passed out once again. Just then I noticed that Jordan had ripped his pants but didn’t point it out to him because when you’re a champion you don’t need good pants.
Finally, I had reached my destination, the last dining hall open after the Big East apocalypse. I was crawling, feeling every pang and contraction of my stomach, and bumped into a solid glass door. I looked up and began to weep.
“ALUMNI HALL IS CLOSED SUNDAYS.”
Jordan regained consciousness to my tears.
“Hey, man, Ray’s open I think; they have those fish tacos,” he said with dignity.
“No, that’s enough for one life,” I said on my last breath and passed away silently.
The Three Boys
by The Cowl Editor on March 15, 2018
Portfolio
by Marisa Gonzalez ’18
There were three boys who lived in a magnificent house. A house that seemed to go on forever. Each room more wondrous than the next. Edgar, Allan, and Paul, who everyone called Poe, had it all: a swimming pool in their living room, a trampoline in their bedroom, and a bowling alley for a porch; however, they wanted more. They needed more, so they claimed. Bright eyed and blond haired, they would whine to their gullible parents and get more and more objects they really did not need.
“But Mama, I’ll die without it!” whined Edgar.
“Oh, Mama, everyone has this! Do you really want your child to be deprived of such an important thing?” cried Allan.
“Mama, Mama, this is old! I must be in the ‘now!’ Don’t you understand?” whimpered Poe. No matter what they asked for, their parents gave in. But they were never happy.
One day the boys’ friend, William, burst through their door and shouted, “Come, come, oh come look!” This awoke the boys who, infuriated, came clambering down the fine wooden stairs.
“What is so important that you must awaken us for?” asked Edgar, wiping his tired eyes.
“A wizard! A magic man! A man who can make dreams!” exclaimed William. The brothers were perplexed but then looked at each other, each with the same mischievous look in his eye.
“Where?”
The boys walked together down the brick sidewalk, William in the lead. The brothers were becoming restless as they turned another corner.
“How much longer?” whined Poe. William did not reply. He just kept walking in a hurried pace. Poe sighed. Can this man really create my dream? Poe pondered. Can he know what I want most in the whole world, when I, myself, do not? Poe began to doubt his friend’s story until a little shack with no windows appeared into his view. If not for the large line of people pouring out the door, Poe would have reprimanded his friend for lying and stormed off. Upon seeing the line, Edgar was quick to move.
“Get out of the way!” he shouted as he violently shoved a woman.
“Hey! That is not—” she started to say before Allan interrupted, “We have money! Move, peasant!”
They made their way through the crowd and there, right in front of them was the magic man, the dream maker. He smiled a little and chuckled. This disgusted Poe. How could an old man laugh at such a rich boy?
He was about to say that it is rude to laugh at such a prince when the man said, “My, my, such temper, such power. Power fit for a prince.”
Poe gasped. How could the man possibly know that he thought of himself as a prince, unless, of course, he was indeed magic? He looked to his brothers who were shining with pride, ecstatic that someone else thought they were princes.
“Now,” spoke the man, “your dreams.” He took one last look over at the boys and lifted up a brush. Slowly and carefully, the boys’ dream came alive in front of them. After ten minutes, the man nodded and got up.
He removed his arm from in front of the canvas to reveal a picture, one that was different to each boy. The boys gasped and smiled. This was it, the one thing that would make them happy! The man was truly magic.
The boys went to touch the painting but were stopped when the man’s frail hand stuck in front of them
“Is this truly what you want?” he asked.
“Don’t be a foolish old man. Of course! Now move your arm and let us have our dream,” Edgar snarled.
With a frown, the man complied and the boys touched their dream. It turned into a splatter of colors.
“Liar! You are no magic man, but a fraud. Give me my dream, now!” Allan screamed.
With a sigh and a shake of the head, the man said, “It is no lie. It is life. One must truly earn their dream, not simply want to have it or have the money to gain it. Now that you have learned this lesson, you may leave.”
Dismayed, the three boys left thinking about what the old man had said.
“What a fool,” Edgar grumbled. “What a horrid man and a horrid lie. How could I have fallen in into that trap?”
Poe walked beside him and shook his head. “I do not know. But I, too, am ashamed.”
Allan then ran in front of them. “Do not be sad. We are rich while that man is poor. We are far greater than him in every way. Now let’s go home and ask mama for a pony and forget all about this man.”
The brothers smiled, agreed, and began their journey home. In the shack the old man shook his head and smiled sadly. “Someday,” he whispered, picking up his paint brush.
“Someday.”
The Grinch
by The Cowl Editor on December 8, 2017
Christmas
by Madison Stevens ’19
There is blood everywhere. That’s all I am aware of at this point—wet, metallic-smelling blood. On the operating room floor, on gauze packs, on me. I survived my twelfth day at Saint Mary’s Hospital in Austin. A Christmas miracle, to say the least. I had done my first year residency in Dallas but moved to train under the best after I decided on my specialty in cardiothoracic surgery. As the harsh florescent lights of the O.R. stare me in the face, I am very much regretting my decision.
I live for the rush of the hospital, for the unsanitary in the midst of complete sterilization. Blood hitting the bleached floors of the O.R., a completely diseased organ in the safety of my latex glove-covered hand, a placenta sliding into a medical waste bag as a mother swaddles her newborn baby girl. I live for it. The hospital welcomes life and strives to delay death. I live for the first cut, taking the scalpel and initiating my workspace with a drag of the blade across an abdomen, chest, leg, or scalp. These are the things that surgeons think about, I think to myself so I don’t feel as crazy as I tie the waistband on my scrubs. I retrieve three charts from the nurses’ station, all post-ops, and look it over. “December 25” is displayed on the sticky calendar on the desk. It couldn’t be more perfect that today was Christmas, for today I am getting the best possible gift I can imagine: the meat and potatoes of surgery specialties—working in the cardiothoracic wing under Dr. Gerald Hallen.
“Dr. Penelope Kannery?” I hear my name in a deep voice from behind me. I turn around and look up; my 5’9 frame suddenly feels tiny in the presence of Dr. Hallen. He has to be mid- to late-40s, though there are no traces of laugh lines around his eyes; just frown lines framing his chin.
“Yes Dr. Hallen, that’s me. I was on my way down to the cardio wing.” I say with a smile. His face remains neutral.
“You’re here earlier than your call. That’s good. Follow me and keep up.” And he’s off down the hall. I hear two nurses mumble “the Grinch” under their breath as we pass by. He comes to an abrupt stop in front of a room, turns around, and shoves a binder with all of the patient information at my waist, saying, “30 seconds to review. Do not speak to the patient.”
Yeah, he’s the Grinch all right. Okay, Henry Sidler, 72, he needs a coronary artery bypass graft surgery, the most common of heart surgeries—one that I studied endlessly in med school and scrubbed in on four times back in Dallas. I walk in behind him and wait as he explains to Henry what would happen during his surgery.
“And as I have said before, it is the most common heart surgery preformed, though that doesn’t mean things cannot go wrong. I have—” Dr. Hallen was beginning another sentence as Henry cut him off, causing the world-renowned doctor to have a look on his face as if somebody kicked his puppy.
“Yeah, yeah, Doc, you’ve told me all of this before, can I get back to my game of solitaire? My granddaughter gave me these cards for Christmas,” Henry says with a nervous laugh, gesturing at his playing cards displayed on the makeshift table on his lap.
“As. I. Was. Saying. I have an extremely high success rate, and there have only been good things said about Dr. Penelope Kannery, so we’ll see if that’s true,” Dr. Hallen finishes as poor Henry looks at him wearily. Grinch.
“You have nothing to worry about, Mr. Sidler. You are in the best hands possible, Dr. Hallen has done this surgery hundreds of times. Try not to worry, this is the best Christmas gift you could be receiving—after the cards of course,” I say with a smile and a squeeze to his arm. Dr. Hallen storms out of the room. Henry smiles at me as I throw out a quick, “See you in surgery!” and scamper through the door to catch up with Dr. Hallen down the hall. I bring my pace back down to a walk next to him, but he stops short again and turns to face me.
“You are at strike one, Dr. Penelope Kannery, and I operate on a two strike system, not three. Do not test me. The next time I see you will be in the O.R.” And with that, he’s off, not even giving me time to apologize for speaking to the patient.
I walk into the O.R. with my arms bent at the elbows take my place next to Dr. Hallen.
“Let’s see if you’re going to cash in on strike number two or succeed. I want you to make the initial incision,” he says as he hands me a scalpel. I do it with ease and fluidity.
“Okay Dr. Penelope Kannery, ever cut a breastbone?” My eyes light up at his words; I’ve never done it before on a live person, just cadavers.
“No, Dr. Hallen. It would be my honor to,” I say. He hands me the electric saw and I feel it again, the rush of the hospital. This is what I live for. I start my cut at the top of the sternum, avoiding the ribs.
“Now be sure to cut through the middle slowly. He’s old so his bones aren’t as healthy and you risk the chance of a rib cracking into the—” the BEEP of the breathing monitor interrupts him and I watch as the respiratory levels start to plunge.
“Get out of the way, Dr. Penelope Kannery. You not only just splintered a rib into his lung causing it to collapse, you just hit strike two. Get the hell out of my O.R.!” Dr. Hallen yells.
I stand at the small circular window of the scrub room as I watch him finish up Henry’s surgery with ease. Six hours later, both lung and heart are stable and he’s being wheeled out to the ICU for post-op monitoring as Hallen walks out.
“Two strikes, Dr. Penelope Kannery. You will now have to answer the consequences. So, what is your decision Dr. Penelope Kannery? Do you accept the consequence?” He asks as he scrubs out, and then opens another package of soap to scrub back in.
“Yes,” I reply.
The next thing I know, I’m lying on the very same table where Henry had just been. Dr. Hallen administers an epidural and lifts my scrubs to reveal my abdomen.
“I do not stand for mundane, avoidable stress in my surgeries, Dr. Penelope Kannery. Precision avoids stress. After this you will be as precise as you would be if you were operating on yourself—because you are.” He hands me a scalpel. I feel no rush, no “living for” feeling—rather a feeling of needing to survive. It was suddenly becoming a very dark Christmas.
“Remove your appendix, Dr. Penelope Kannery. Be precise.”
Two Writers, One Line
by The Cowl Editor on December 8, 2017
Christmas
“This Christmas was shaping up to be the one ever…”
by Marisa DelFarno ’18
This Christmas was shaping up to be the best one ever! Actually, no. That’s a lie. This Christmas marks another year where Natalie and her sister, Sara, have to endure dinner table discussion with their Aunt Claudia, who incessantly brags about her daughter, Jane.
Natalie and Sara huddle together at one end of the table while their mom and Aunt Claudia are seated at the opposite end. Porcelain dishes housing ham, mashed potatoes, and glazed carrots lay scattered on the table, obstructing the girls’ view of their aunt’s Raggedy Ann-red dyed hair with matching red lipstick, staining both her lips and teeth. Her powdery makeup is caked on, creasing into her wrinkles. The sisters attempt to avoid conversation by hovering their heads over their plates and stuffing their mouths with food. However, Aunt Claudia always finds a way to bring up Jane and her lengthy list of accomplishments…
Sara: (puts down her fork and rubs her stomach) All this food is giving me agita. I might go upstairs and lay down for a bit.
Natalie: (pushes her plate away from her) Oh my God, me too!
The girls rise from their seats and make a beeline for the stairs.
Mom: Wait, come back! Let’s all sit and talk. (nudges her head) We haven’t seen Aunt Claudia since last Christmas.
Sara: (takes a deep breath) Okay, fine.
Natalie and Sara drag their feet back to the dinner table as if they were made of cinder blocks and sit.
Aunt Claudia: (smiles) So, Natalie, do you have a boyfriend?
Natalie: Uh…no.
Aunt Claudia: (turns to Sara) Sara, what about you?
Sara: (without looking up from her phone) Nope!
Aunt Claudia: Oh, well, Jane and her boyfriend Henry are still going strong. Five years already! They just got themselves an apartment in Palo Alto. It is so beautiful over there in California. (spits as she talks) BIG bucks they are making now!
Natalie: Oh, good for them. I heard tha—
Aunt Claudia: They went to Japan together this summer, too! Do you want to see a picture of them in Kyoto? (whips out her phone from her pocket and scrolls through it before passing it around the table)
Sara & Natalie: (voices infected with indifference) Aww.
Aunt Claudia: Isn’t she gorgeous? So classy and natural-looking! I always tell her she should model! (points to her phone) Doesn’t she look exactly like Prince Harry’s fiancée? Oh what’s her name…Meghan Markle!
Mom: (leans in for a closer look) Why yes, she does. It’s uncanny!
Sara & Natalie: Uh-huh. Yeah.
Aunt Claudia: Anyways, Natalie, do you have any plans for after graduation?
Natalie: Um…hopefully grad school. I’ve been checking out a few creative writing programs and—
Aunt Claudia: Oh, Jane is into creative writing, too! But she only keeps that as a hobby. (laughs) She used to write prose, but now she writes code! (laughs at her own joke until silence fills the room)
Mom: You know, there aren’t a lot of women in STEM fields. I think it’s great—
Aunt Claudia: You all don’t know how proud I am that Jane is a software developer! She’s only 23 and look, she’s working in Silicon Valley!
Sara: Yeah, we know.
Aunt Claudia: Anyways, Natalie, what were you saying again? I forgot.
Natalie: Oh, well, I might take a gap year. Save up, travel, maybe take a GRE review course, and then apply to a couple of programs. (half-smiles and shrugs shoulders)
Aunt Claudia: Oh…(takes a long pause) And, ah, Sara, how are things at school?
Sara: (apathetically) Fine, I guess.
Mom: (turns to Aunt Claudia) Sara has been doing great in school! She got all A’s this quarter! If she keeps this up, she’s going to graduate with honors! (smiles at Sara, whose face is reddened with embarrassment)
Aunt Claudia: Oh that’s good, dear. You know, Jane graduated with honors in high school and later summa cum laude in college!
There’s an awkward silence. Sara’s eyes dart down to her phone and she fumbles with it underneath the table. Natalie’s phone buzzes. A text from Sara reads “kill me now.” The sisters exchange looks and a smirk.
Mom: (notices Aunt Claudia’s empty plate) Hey, we’ve got desserts. Do you want some Christmas cookies?
Aunt Claudia: Oh, yes please!
Mom: I’ll be right back. (disappears into the kitchen)
Aunt Claudia: Hmm, I’ve been talking so much about Jane. Let’s switch up the conversation. (grins like the Cheshire cat) Let’s talk politics!
by Erin Lucey ’20
This Christmas was shaping up to be the best one ever—or at least the best one my kids would see so far—when it all abruptly collapsed. Just as we felt that everything was falling into place, we blinked and it had all fallen apart. The tree stood lonely in the corner of the living room, lights unplugged and lively ornaments populating just the top portion of its left side. The children’s gifts lay tucked away in the attic closet, unwrapped and unseen. The house was empty.
The world saw its first broken Christmas 12 years ago, two months before the birth of my first child. For roughly a month and a half before the big day, new rumors kept surfacing that shocked the world and began to abolish the magic of the season. For the very first time in history, journalists had made their way to the very top of the Earth, to report on the subject we all wondered about, but wouldn’t dare question—Santa’s toy factory in the North Pole.
What they discovered astounded everyone who believed. Photos of the horrifying working and living conditions that his helpless elves experienced quickly circulated, and the world’s jolly image of Santa quickly flipped to the vision of a monster.
On the night of Christmas Eve of 2005, on his annual mission to deliver gifts to the nicest children around the world, he was assassinated as he flew over North America. The traditional celebration of Christmas was banned, and everyone promised to never mention the evil man or his Christmas practices ever again. These rules became stricter and stricter over the years, quickly making the celebration of Christmas with a decorated pine tree and “Santa’s presents” a hefty criminal offense.
I’ve always been particularly fond of the loving magic that engulfs the Christmas season, and couldn’t stomach the thought of my children never experiencing it as I did. As they grew up, I’ve slowly and subtly introduced the wonders of the holiday little by little. Starting with Christmas carols when they were babies, I’ve waited until they were old enough to keep the secret from their teachers and friends to decorate a tree, and allow “Santa” to bring them presents as a reward for their good behavior. This was supposed to be the first year of us doing it all.
As I wait here, surrounded by bleak cement walls and anchored with defeat, I wonder how it is that such a harmless and wholesome concept could become so irreparably damaged. Will Christmas ever regain its magic?
Left with nothing but my own inner holiday zeal, I walk up to the metal bars that enclose me and begin to gently tap with the side of my shoe, creating a calm and steady beat. Inhaling slowly, I quietly whisper just loud enough that it can be heard over my music, “You better watch out…”
And immediately a faint voice has joined me. “You better not cry…”
Two more voices have added to the harmony. “You better not pout…”
At least eight mouths are chanting now. “I’m telling you why…”
A door opens and guards come flooding in, but everyone in the prison is singing at this point.
“Santa Claus is coming…”
And at this very moment, I am sure that my family and I will always believe in the magic of Christmas.