Tag: Julia Zygiel ’19
Private Thoughts in Public Spaces
by The Cowl Editor on November 19, 2018
Portfolio
by Julia Zygiel ’19
Any time she writes in her diary she does it in a café. If it is 2 a.m. and she has the urge, she’ll trot to the Starbucks situated in the 24/7 convenience store a block from her apartment. She likes the idea of private thoughts in public spaces. When it isn’t 2 a.m., she goes to Tatiana’s Café in the center of town and claims her regular booth. From her corner seat by the door to the kitchen, she can see all of the customers, all of the waiters and waitresses, and (if she squints) even the totals on the register. To her, miniscule moments spent on trivial things such as caffeine are when mankind is most beautiful. You can fall in love with almost anyone in a coffee shop. Two women sit two tables away, clutching hands in kind love. A man in line laughs so hard at his own joke that he cannot finish it. A waitress smiles nervously as she drops her client’s check on the floor. In these moments, she is enamored by them. Her own bubble of existence overlaps with theirs for mere seconds, a minute at most. She wonders what their worries are, what color makes them gasp at the beauty of it. They get their caffeine and go, and she envisions herself fitting into the stride of their lives. But it always feels loose, or tight, so she shrugs it off and lets go of the film of two distinct lives intersecting.
Halloween Haikus
by The Cowl Editor on October 25, 2018
Features
TickTok TickTok Tick
I feel it running after me
Its breath on my neck.
—Jessica Polanco ’20
I can’t feel myself.
No one hears me talk to them
Is this death for me?
—Connor Zimmerman ’20
I hear a shuffle
And a chill goes down my back
All I see are eyes
—Sam Pellman ’20
It lived in Mary’s room
Mom blamed imagination
But I felt its breath
—Julia Zygiel ’19
Late October thoughts
Of pumpkin pies, sugar highs,
Warm nostalgic hearts.
—Erin Venuti ’20
Aura of horror:
Ghosts, witches, black cats are nigh.
The best time of year.
—Sam Ward ’21
Ghost Stories
by The Cowl Editor on October 25, 2018
Features
The Carson Killer
He didn’t want to get caught. The day he was suspected the shadows scratched across the hardwood floors of 29 Carson Avenue, as though the sun were trying to drag them to the basement. Day or night the sun succeeded; a cellar filled with more dark than light said as much. That’s how dark it must’ve always been. Yet, it didn’t stop the man from making it more midnight than milky-way-with-no-stars down there. Sealed windows and a victim a week kept the room heavy with languor only he could enjoy. Save the unheard screams from his “play dates,” it was quiet. Seldom was there a reason to suspect him of all people in the neighborhood. He was squeaky. Not a speck on him. When all the gardening he did finally got him dirty enough to be a suspect, he was gone. The police found a letter at 29 penned to them and the neighborhood.
“Reach inside,” he wrote. “Dig and dig. Look for it. Look, actually look. I assure you it’s there. I’ve seen it. All of them had it. All of us do. I saw it. They saw it too, before I let them go. The Capacity for murder is there. Everyone’s a killer if pushed far enough. The Capacity is buried below the gallbladder for most or in between the heart and the right lung for the extraordinary. I can’t wait to find out more in each of you. I can’t wait to find out which one I am.”
He didn’t want to get caught…so, he didn’t.
—Dawyn Henriquez ’19
“One of Them”
Halloween used to be my favorite holiday. Like so many others, I went trick-or-treating. I watched horror movies and visited haunted houses. I wasn’t immune to the world’s fascination with the dead who stay behind. But look where that got me. If this isn’t the definition of “cruel irony,” I don’t know what is.
Back then, costumes mattered. Halloween mattered. Now, the only thoughts I give the dark night are those of disgust. How, you must be saying, was I supposed to know how insensitive I was being when I was still alive? I can’t help it – I’m ashamed of who I used to be.
I remember my last Halloween. It was the first one after graduation and I’d driven three hours to my former roommate’s house in the middle of nowhere for a mini-reunion. Incredibles 2 had premiered that summer, so I was dressed as Elastigirl – not my most creative costume, but it was comfortable and, I had to admit, I looked pretty damn good in it.
The house backed up to a forest so dense I could hug two trees at the same time. It was my idea to go exploring there, to dare Death. After, I heard my friends rationalizing, claiming I didn’t deserve it. “She wasn’t thinking,” they said. “She’d had too much to drink.” They were kidding themselves. Cider may have played a part, but I was sober enough to know I was playing with fire.
Once we were in deep enough for the house lights to be swallowed by the wood, I started taunting the spirits, only half joking – Halloween isn’t fun unless some part of you believes in ghosts.
“C’mon out!” I yelled, laughing. “Bet’cha can’t scare us!”
The trees rustled incomprehensibly.
“Shut up!”
After a minute the air began to thin; only then did I pause to inhale and – I could have sworn – I heard the trees inhaling too. Suddenly, everything around me was thrashing violently. The wind scratched at my clothes, grabbed at my hair, and I screamed someone else’s scream.
Then, nothing.
Now I am one of them.
—Erin Venuti ’20
Eco Terror
“So. We were in the woods. Hanging out. Smoking—,” he paused, pursed his lips. “Wait, you guys aren’t, like, tightasses are you?”
The interviewer gave him a dead-eyed stare.
“Okay, it was cigarettes. Eddie’s new girlfriend is some wannabe witch, always yapping about stones and the moon and other bull. So, she’s feeling the spirit of the holiday, talking our ears off about All Hallow’s Eve, about honoring the dead, and she whips out chalk. But we’re in the woods, so she can’t really do anything with it. I think Andrew made some comment about using it on leaves.” He snickered.
The interviewer was unamused. “Mr. Greene, could we please get back to the matter of Wednesday’s incident.”
“Right. So she turns to the damned trees, talking about nature and oneness with the earth and once she’s on her third symbol on the third tree the whole circle of ‘em starts vibrating hard enough to stop a heart beat. It made my legs feel like pudding.”
“The chasm, Mr. Greene.”
“Listen, telling a story is like weaving a web, it’s very delicate very preci—”
“We are on an incredibly limited time frame.”
“Alright. So the trees are vibrating and Casey’s on the ground screaming, begging forgiveness, and there must’ve been something lost in translation because the freakin’ ground opened up and swallowed her and we were all standing by the edges because we were freaked by that point… Eddie’s gotta be devastated.”
“And you wouldn’t say your perceptions of the event were affected by the… cigarettes you were smoking that evening?”
“No way. I’ve been paranoid before, I’ve seen ghouls in shadows, but my mind is not nearly creative enough to make that up. That girl was messing with some chaos magic or something. What are you all telling her parents?”
“Our agency doesn’t handle that, only containment procedure.”
“Containment procedure?”
“Of anomalies.”
“So this isn’t an isolated incident?”
“Mr. Greene, right now all I can discuss is this particular event. Did Casey mention anything at all about a group called the Circle?”
—Julia Zygiel ’19
Home Alone
I wave goodbye as the last roommate’s car drives off into the darkening afternoon light. I sit myself down in my favorite beanbag with a mug of warm tea and close my eyes, the thought of having the house to myself causing a smile to play across my lips as I slowly drift into a lazy and much deserved nap.
Bang! A loud noise jerks me suddenly back to consciousness. My heart is in my throat as I look around wildly. Somehow, hours must’ve passed as the sky outside is a sheet of pure darkness. Inside, the dimness of the room without the lamps paints the furniture in white and black and gray, the same living room I have been used to for months made unfamiliar by the night. I hear the noise again.
“Hello? Back so soon?” I call out, hoping against hope that one of my roommates has simply forgotten her pajamas or her toothbrush.
The faint warbling of the wind answers me. From down the stairs comes a prolonged knock. One, two, three, four, five, six slow raps against the wooden door. “Did you forget your key?” I try again. No response.
Somewhere in the house the hundred-year-old floorboards creak and the windows rattle loose in their panes. The slow plodding of heavy footsteps reaches my ears. I turn and look into the kitchen, my eyes frozen and fixed on the door that guards the stairs. A screech of metal as the doorknob slowly turns. My heart has stopped beating altogether.
I hold my breath as the door swings open.
—Taylor Godfrey ’19
The Circle
by Portfolio Co-Editor on October 4, 2018
Portfolio
II
Anthony’s eyes let loose a few traitorous tears in the cab seat next to me, his hand clutching the black drawstring bag between his feet as if it were a lifeline. I’d only known him a few weeks, but he was woefully unaccustomed to the violence of the Circle’s way of life. I saw it in his face when Argus gave us our first charge. He had looked pale as a sheet of paper, which was impressive given his tan. It was a comfort to know I wasn’t the only one they inducted out of desperation.We had been silent while carrying out Argus’ orders. I knew that if I had made a point of how bad Anthony’s hands were shaking it would’ve made everything worse. In the cab, my curiosity overtook me.
“You’ve never killed anything before?”
A concoction of fear and surprise stopped his tears in their tracks. He watched the driver for a reaction as he stammered out a “no.”
“The glass is too thick for him to hear. We’d have to press the button to talk,” my words reassured, but my tone chastised.
“Oh,” he relaxed infinitesimally. After a pause, he realized he hadn’t answered my question, “No, I’ve never killed anything before. I’ve never had to.”
“It’s just squirrels. You could’ve let me do it.”
He raised his hand to his face suddenly, as though just realizing that he should dry the tears on his cheeks, “Well I wanna get used to it. Sacrifice is kind of part of the whole thing.”
“Well, yeah.”
He shifted away from me, ever so slightly, pressing his eyes shut. I’d struck a nerve. Pitying him, I tacked on, “You’ll get used to it.”
“Thanks.” He didn’t believe me.
The cab was approaching a truck stop on the highway, complete with a dank highway diner. Pressing the button, I instructed the cab driver to drop us at the diner. Anthony did not look at me as I paid and hopped out of the cab.
“Can you call up a shroud?” I asked under my breath as we approached the diner.
Anthony scoffed, which was the most confident thing I’d ever heard him do. “Of course.”
Together we breathed slow and deep, calming our heart rates, dampening our auras, out of view from anyone who wasn’t paying attention.
As we stepped inside I observed the truck drivers who had stopped in for a meal. They were all men, some with sagging skin and sunken eyes clutching beers in their fists, others thin and emaciated, inhaling burgers and fries. A man at the bar was nodding his head to non-existent music, fighting valiantly against the drunken stupor that was bound to win him over. Anthony and I sat at the bar a few seats down from him. The bartender-slash-waitress did not acknowledge us. I pointed a thumb over my shoulder at the now sleeping truck driver. “Go get his keys.”
Anthony’s shoulders slumped as he slid off of his stool, a strange reaction to the terror that must have gripped him in the moment. I poured myself a beer from the bar as he returned, the keys of our fated vehicle hanging from his pointer finger. He gave me a wan smile. “You oughtta be proud of yourself,” I congratulated.
After 20 minutes of shoving car keys into slots they didn’t belong to, we managed to find the truck that belonged to the sleeping man. I swung up into the driver’s seat as Anthony clambered in, placing the drawstring bag in the back of the cab. The tools inside had already begun to reek of death. I knew we hadn’t washed them properly. I tore the air freshener from the rearview mirror and placed it on top. Anthony laughed at the futility of the action. “Hey, it’s better than nothing.”
Although I had been the one drinking, Anthony passed out after 15 minutes on the highway. I couldn’t blame the kid. We had been hitchhiking for days to get to Kansas. In Kansas City he had seemed ready to have a mental episode at the prospect of another couple hours entertaining the whims of the strangers who picked us up. I had used the last of our funds to grab a cab to somewhere remote and unpoliced so we could jack a rig.
I drove for hours, as if caught in a loop. We kept on passing the same field of corn, over and over. Perhaps Kansas just gave the sensation of motion without progress. At 15 or 50 mph the corn sped past at the same rate. I could’ve sworn I saw a familiar jaggle-toothed scarecrow at least three times within 2 hours. Either way, we resigned to riding it out until Kansas deemed us worthless enough to let go, and hoping it wouldn’t decide to keep us on our return trip.
I didn’t know exactly why the higher-ups chose the northeastern chapter to carry out this charge, but I suspected it. What irritated me was that Argus had decided to send two kin, who had only belonged to the circle for a month, halfway across the country for a charge that he said would “change the fate of the Circle.”
Anthony awoke shortly before we reached our destination, the warehouse of the midwestern chapter. Thinking of our own dinky warehouse, it must’ve been Circle policy to live in and operate out of them.
“How do you feel?” I asked, the falsity of my sympathy ringing in my own ears.
“Okay,” his voice was still muted by exhaustion.
“Will you be alright around the midwestern chapter?”
“I think so,” he sighed, his back cracking as he stretched his arms above his head.
“You should know so. If the head is suspicious at all she’ll take us for insurgents. We don’t want that.”
“I know so,” he declared, fear coloring his face.
Finally, we arrived. The warehouse was rusty, in a word. Every inch seemed to be a tetanus risk. There were old, rotting cars littered about the parking lot. Fittingly, the apocalypse looked as if it had already been here. I put the truck into park, wedging blocks under the wheels to keep it from running away. Argus had strictly instructed us to open the gate of the cargo bed upon arrival and Anthony did so.
With no other instructions, we approached the front door and knocked for entry. A woman with amber eyes and ratty hair opened the door and we stood rigid before her. She noticed the symbol of the circle on both of us, an ouroboros pin that stood in for the tattoos we would one day earn. She flashed a smile and stepped aside, waving to the members who had been safely observing from behind her. They ran to the back of the warehouse and began lugging crates marked with the infamous yellow and black trefoil symbol, underscored by bold black letters that read RADIOACTIVE. With concerning grunts of effort the members of the midwestern chapter piled the stolen materials into our truck. The purpose of our charge clicked into place in my head as the woman took a seat on a lumpy and stained couch.
“You’ll have to transport these materials quickly and carefully. People might be looking for your truck, so drive back a different route than you came. We’re putting on another set of license plates to help you out, but your main goal is to stay under the radar. Nothing brash. Might wanna let him drive if he can,” her eyes indicated Anthony, “he seems more the trucker type.”
“Thanks,” was all I could think to say.
“Once we’ve finished loading the truck we’ll give you some food to tide you over and you can hunt and sacrifice for luck on the next part of your journey. This time I would chose something more appropriate than squirrels.”
I didn’t ask how she knew what we had chosen as our offering. Some things could not be known yet.
“They didn’t tell me of your next location, but you’re not exactly delivering a care package so I would get out there as quickly as you can. Better safe than sorry. I wish you the very best of luck. Don’t get caught and I’ll see you on the other side.”
And with that she sent us on our way.
Mirror
by Portfolio Co-Editor 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 Portfolio Co-Editor 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.
Overthinking Again
by The Cowl Editor on November 30, 2017
Poetry
by Julia Zygiel ’19
In the heat of imagination
You loved me back
Held me with the intention to keep me
In a haze of unreality everything has significance
your silence
your deafening blabber
the smallest sigh is despair
a half smile is the ecstasy of love
it encapsulated me
until it was all I could think of
all I could dream of
the echoes of it still haunt my dreams
Halloween Haikus
by The Cowl Editor on October 26, 2017
Poetry
“Dev missed school today.”
“He missed it yesterday, too.”
“So HE was the bait.”
—Julia Zygiel ’19
A jagged smile smirks.
Hollowed eyes stare in the dark.
It’s a frightful sight.
—Marisa Gonzalez ’18
The sky grows foggy
Black monsters leave their dark caves
To torment again!
—Sam Pellman ’20
It was time for mail
The letter read Rest In Peace
In giant letters
—Jess Polanco ’20
Autumn’s costume show
Hides from careless grins the truth:
You will all grow up.
—Jonathan Coppe ’18
Bike
by The Cowl Editor on October 26, 2017
Portfolio
by Julia Zygiel ’19
“We shouldn’t have stopped for that stupid. Freaking. Bike,” Tyler panted between breaths, groaning as his body tried to double up in pain.
“Yeah, if I had known it was real and not some ravenous coyote, I definitely wouldn’t have stopped, Tyler!” Dev shouted, miraculously managing to pull off sarcasm while being chased by some sort of Eldritch creature.
“You said it was the size of a cat!” Tyler shouted back, praying to God that his adrenaline could carry him faster as the sound of large, leathery wings approached.
“I s-said,” Dev heaved, “some people said it’s the size,” another gasp, “of a cat.”
“I hate you.” Well, that’s not quite true, Tyler thought as the sound of snapping branches sounded behind them.
Tyler squinted, it was getting dark. If they managed to outrun this thing for long, soon they wouldn’t have enough light to know where they were going. They were screwed all around.
“Dev, actually… if we don’t make it,” he trailed off as he focused on not tripping on a particularly gnarly tree stump,
“I love you, man.”
Even with terror clouding his brain and the cool October air whistling past him, he heard Dev’s choke out a laugh. “I love you, too, man.”
Despite the bloodthirsty thing behind him, despite his yearning to see his family again, to survive, Tyler felt elation for the briefest of moments. They loved each other.
Unfortunately, this elation distracted him from a root sticking out of the ground, and the next thing he felt was excruciating pain as his foot twisted in an impossible direction. Then, soul-numbing terror as a cold and sharp claw wrapped around it. Then, nothing.
“Hey, man, are you even listening to me?” Dev was snapping his fingers at Tyler, his other hand gripping the chain link fence behind him. Beyond the fence the trees of the forest formed an impenetrable wall.
“Huh?” Tyler shook his head. Another daydream. He ought to talk to someone about those.
“I said, wanna go check out that bike? It looks sick, unattended, and I wanna steal it,” Dev grinned at him, aware that Tyler was a bit of a kleptomaniac.
Tyler frowned, his attention drawn to the woods. A leaf slowly floated to the ground, disturbed by what he thought was an impossibly large, leathery wing. Bats didn’t come that big.
Tyler turned to the bike, which was chained to a tree just at the edge of the forest. It would be so simple to get it. He could think of a million ways to pick the lock on it. Yet the image of the wing was imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. He shuddered.
“Nah, man, I gotta get home for dinner or my mom’s going to kill me. We can steal something from the CVS on the way back.”
Dev groaned, running a hand through his hair as if he meant to tear it out. Tyler placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, a grimace on his lips.
“Trust me, man. The woods are dangerous at night, anyways.”
Gillian Flynn and Stephen King Walk Into the Home Invasion
by The Cowl Editor on October 19, 2017
Features
by Julia Zygiel ’19 and Kiley McMahon ’20
Blood coats the floors, a trail of it leading out the door to the driveway.
Stephen King: “So… this is why you called me here?”
Gillian Flynn: “Stephen, there is no time for questions. I need to hide the evidence before the police come and you need to help me. Follow my lead.”
Stephen King: “Hide the evidence? Your prints are probably everywhere, and I can guarantee the police were called at least 10 minutes ago. You’re not going to have enough time.”
Gillian Flynn: “Oh, Stephen, I guess that after 10 years of friendship, you still do not know who I am and what I am capable of. Get out of here if you are just going to reprimand me. I need you here as a friend right now…”
The sirens start sounding from down the street. Gillian and Stephen stand staring at each other; neither knows the next move to make.
Stephen King [rolls his eyes]: “Well, when you put it that way… The only option at this point is to escape however we can. Do you have the weapon?”
Gillian Flynn: “Oh, Stephen, I am one step ahead of you. It is already in the back of my SUV. I will show you the remnants.”
FBI agent: “Finn, you take the back. I’ll take the front.”
Gillian and Stephen jump out of the window and hop into the SUV where the body already awaits their arrival.
Stephen King: “Listen, just because my novels are gory doesn’t mean I want to see this kind of thing. Though I can certainly smell it.” He wheezes, clapping a hand over his mouth and nose.
Gillian Flynn: “Yeah, well, my novels are murder mysteries and I enjoy living in the moment. I am very surprised that you did not know this about me
previously. My blood is currently pumping out of control.”
Stephen King: “I wasn’t aware your novels were… autobiographical.”
Gillian Flynn: “The world is warped, Stephen. You should not be so naive. I am so disappointed. You should be more intelligent, God.”
Stephen King: “I didn’t assume you were a murderer, so kill me. Wait, no, poor phrasing. Do not kill me.”
Gillian Flynn: “Well Stephen, I do have a list you know. You might be on it, you might not be. You might find out when it is too late.” She grins menacingly, plotting her next move.
Stephen King: “If I help you hide the body and the evidence, will that get me off of this list?”
Gillian Flynn: “I told you Stephen, life is unpredictable.”
Stephen King: “Well if you get caught I’m going down, too. Pull over here, we’ll dump everything in the river.”
FBI Agent Finn: “Gillian Flynn, put your hands up, you are under the arrest for the murder of Stephenie Meyer.”