by The Cowl Editor on October 29, 2020


back view of a woman
Photo courtesy of; graphic design by Sarah Kirchner ’21

by Kate Ward ’23

Like every other house on the street, their house was modern: a sleek black exterior with a white interior and a veiny granite counter. The house was sparsely decorated and resembled an emergency room in its cleanliness. It seemed to have a permanent draft as the tan curtains always fluttered as if a pixie was shaking them. However, for the newlywed couple, this house was home, despite all of its shadowy corners and harsh lines. Saoirse and her husband Dominic married shortly after graduating college and didn’t hesitate to have children. The pair was blessed with one child, a baby girl named Ada. As Ada grew, she developed a wild imagination and didn’t hesitate to create elaborate games with her father, which involved running around the house draped in blankets, shouting made-up spells. Saoirse was a worried mother and always fretted to her husband, cautioning them to be more careful and not to trip over the blankets. 

Due to Ada’s imagination, it came as no shock that as she entered elementary school, she would come home bursting with vibrant stories of a girl named Victoria who helped her through science and math. However, after consulting the teacher, the parents found out there was no girl in Ada’s grade named Victoria. In fact, there was no one in the school with the name. Saoirse began to worry, fretting to her husband each evening about their little Ada. As a precaution, the pair had Ada evaluated. The doctor assured them that Victoria was a figment of Ada’s imagination and that it was a very common occurrence in small children, especially children with no siblings. The parents were able to breathe a sigh of relief as they finally got to the root of Victoria, but the buck didn’t stop there. As Ada grew, the stories grew as well, both in detail and in sinister nature. Victoria had begun to appear in Ada’s room, however, when Dominic went to check, no one was there. Yet, Ada insisted that Victoria was there, insisted that they were just talking. Finally, after nine years of stories, Ada stopped seeing the girl.

The day Ada turned twelve, she told her mother that after three years of not seeing Victoria, she saw Victoria in her bedroom last night. And thus, the stories began again. Ada progressed in school and was acing her classes through middle and high school, excelling particularly in science and math. She began college and, like every other pair of parents, Saoirse and Dominic were proud and mostly relieved to finally be rid of the tales of Victoria. 

Things were calm while Ada was away, but then they slowly began to spiral out of control. Dominic flicked through the news each morning, paying close attention to the crime reports and how murder rates had begun to climb. He and Saoirse invested in new locks on the doors and cameras, both indoors and outdoors, but it did little to ease their minds. One evening while Saoirse blew her hair dry, the bathroom door eased open.

“Dominic, what do you need, love?” she asked, shaking the blow dryer back and forth over her hair.

“Oh, nothing,” said a female voice. “Hello, Saoirse.”

Saoirse jumped out of her skin, the dryer clattering to the granite counter. She looked at the woman and asked, “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“You know exactly who I am,” she said, lifting a bloodied knife to her lips, sucking the arterial blood from it. 

Cold sweat slithered down Saoirse’s spine, tears bubbling over her lash line, “Where’s Dominic?” 

“You know.” She smiled and lowered the knife. “Turns out I was real all along, hm?” 

“Victoria,” Saoirse whispered. A terrible squelching noise came from her stomach as the knife was rammed into it.


Monster Haikus

by The Cowl Editor on October 29, 2020


Churning, black whirlpool
Or six-headed snapping jaws—
The hero must choose.

by Sarah McLaughlin ’23


I crawl black of night
I howl the full of the moon
I am one of you

by Marelle Hipolito ’22


Now I lay me down,
I wish he would let me sleep.
Demon of my life.

by Sam Ward ’21


Sat under the bridge
Awaiting their next victim.
Snarl. The trolls gather. 

by Sarah Kirchner ’21


My color scares you.
You think I am a monster.
Yet, you scare me more.

by Mariela Flores ’23


Lurking in the loch
vestige of another time
the last of her kind

by Elizabeth McGinn ’21


Dark shadows flash around.
Weaving in and out of trees––
Footprints left behind

by Anna Pomeroy ’23


Without any light
Darkness lurks like a monster
Preying on my fears.

by Sarah Heavren ’21


Dancing and taunting
His father trained him too well
The Boogeyman’s son

by Ellie Forster ’24


The vampires all fly,
Eagerly searching for meals.
Where will they hunt next?

by Taylor Rogers ’24


He wonders, “why me?”
Eyes on the moon, desolate
Soon, screams turn to howls

by Kate Ward ’23


Urban Legends

by The Cowl Editor on October 29, 2020


A Real Deal

By Ellie Forster ’24

“It’ll save you a fortune,” the man with different colored eyes said as he snapped his gum. She looked skeptically at the small green capsule in her palm.

“Why haven’t I heard of it before?” she asked.

“I’m glad you asked darlin’! The big oil companies don’t want you to know about these bad boys on account of how they’re gonna steal all of their business. Who would wanna pay for gas when this little pill’ll make it with nothin’ but water?”

She gave a forced smile, handed him the fifty cents, pocketed the pill, and left quickly.

When she ate dinner with her husband that night she told him about the man and his magic pill. Her husband was enthused.

“We gotta try it! You shoulda found out if we coulda invested.”

“I dunno,” she said pushing her food around her plate. “I just wanted to shut him up, it’s definitely a scam.”

“Well, let’s find out,” he said, holding out his palm.

She placed the little thing reluctantly in his hand and he dropped it in his glass. The pill fizzled and the water turned green. A sort of vapor started to come off of it and the pair slumped forward into their potatoes and chicken.

Their house was robbed that night. Every room stripped bare, their cold bodies on the floor of the dining room. Nothing concrete was caught on the cameras, just a pair of mismatched eyes under a ski-mask, winking before the footage cut out.


The Voice of the Eaton Street Bike Lane from the Great Beyond

By Sarah Heavren ’21

Traces remain
Of my short life.
Streaks of yellow
To the right. 

Few remember
And fewer care
About the bike lane
No longer there. 

Like a sad ghost
I haunt the street
Of things gone by
Not to repeat. 


The Black Angel

By Sarah Kirchner ’21

“Are we really going in?” Claire squeaked. The three of us stared at the cemetery entrance.

“It’s Halloween! We have to!” Ryan declared. Before any of us could object, he walked through the gate. I grabbed Claire’s hand and took a deep breath. There was no turning back. 

As we stepped over the threshold, chills ran down my spine. Ryan wandered ahead while Claire and I lingered at the front. Up ahead, the Black Angel loomed. The wings stretched out, threatening to consume us. Had something moved in its shadow? No. It had to be Ryan.

“Stop messing around, Ryan. You’re going to accidentally hit the angel, and it’s almost midnight.” 

“You actually believe those rumors?”

Claire and I exchanged a look. Of course we did. 

“You also believe that if I kiss her, I’ll die instantly?” I chewed on my lip. I didn’t know what to believe, but I wasn’t going to test my luck. We all knew the stories. Ryan laughed and jumped onto the base of the statue. Claire and I screamed in unison. Ryan continued to laugh and grabbed onto the angel’s waist. Before Claire and I could interject, he pressed his lips to hers. A blood-curdling scream sounded, seemingly from nowhere and everywhere at once. Ryan jumped at the cry. His balance faltered and before I could reach out, he hit the ground with a loud thump. Above him, the Black Angel darkened. There was no question what had just happened. The Black Angel had claimed another victim.

Small and Simple

By Marelle Hipolito ’22

A boy, a small, simple province boy, sold bread for his family. Up and down the highway traffic, the small, simple province boy tapped on car windows and sold bread for his family. Most times the boy received coins in exchange, other times he received remarks of dismissal. One time this boy, the small and simple province boy, received a horse. A small, simple wooden horse, stuck in gallop, bought with old bread. The boy, small and simple, hid the simple horse in his small pocket and galloped from the highway to home. In his excitement, the boy did not see the large and complex car, flying towards him, making the small and simple boy weak and weary. In his last breaths, the boy gripped the horse, wishing that he had a chance to not be so small and simple. There was a whinny and a whine. At this time, people talk about the big and polished wooden boy, who galloped out of the small and simple province. 




The Kiss of Death

by The Cowl Editor on October 29, 2020


grave marker
Photo courtesy of

by Anna Pomeroy ’24

I feel you lurking––
Peering your head out from behind the wall.
Your glaring presence disrupts the vision from the corner of my eye.
I quickly turn my cheek, hoping to catch a glimpse––
Reassurance that maybe I am just crazy, or perhaps I am dying. 

Sweat beads begin to trace down my hairline, caressing my cheek.
Is it really today?
Am I going to die?

I mean, technically I am.
Every day, every minute, every second,
Is one closer to death.

Your existence is wanted, yet many times necessary.
And while you strip away innocent souls,
You are a bandaid to an infinitely bleeding wound. 

You stand awkwardly in the corner of the hospital room.
Like a middle school boy nervously waiting under the flashing disco light––
Not sure when to make the final move,
When to lean over the person with your wings spread and give them the kiss.
The kiss–– so gentle, yet so deceiving.
It’s as if you can see the thick fog of the soul being vacuumed up.

We are all dying, you just seem to choose when––
When to stitch up a wound that will only create an even wider one in someone else.


Tiff and Earl

by The Cowl Editor on October 15, 2020


Dear Tiff and Earl,

I’ve had four Halloween costumes picked out for the past year. Now that Halloween is canceled, what should I do?


Incapable of Returning Packages to Amazon


Dear Clearly Has Never Utilized the Convenience of Dropping Things Off at the UPS Store,

Might as well start integrating these costumes into your regular wardrobe. If some of them come with a mask, then that’s even better given the present circumstances. Professors should start giving style points for Zoom classes. Some people aren’t even putting in the effort to put on a pair of pants, but you’d be blowing them out of the water by wearing a costume. These are the days for fashion experiments. 




Dear I.O.R.P.T.A., 

My address is 1 Cunningham Square, Providence, RI, 02918. I am in need of a spooky costume and it seems like you have one to spare. My plans: sit on the couch and eat as much chocolate as I can. Actually, that is what I do on a normal Halloween anyways. You might consider doing the same.